


The Picture of Damien Gray

by roomeight



Category: Blur, British Singers RPF
Genre: AU, Gramon, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-08 19:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11653227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roomeight/pseuds/roomeight
Summary: Lolita-esque AU timeline wherein Damon is a university music professor in his early forties, and Graham is a young college student taking his course.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in an alternate universe, wherein Damon is a university music professor in his early forties, and Graham is a young college student taking his music course. A few people requested a sugar daddy fic, and I felt that the dynamic relationship Graham of being young and Damon much older would be intriguing to write and something I've not seen done yet.
> 
> The title and inspiration comes from the Oscar Wilde story "The Picture of Dorian Gray" (and yes it's a play on their pet names and I know it's horrible but I can't think of anything better at 1 am so you should shame me for that—but HEY at least I didn't call it Fifty Shades of Gray). (I must just see Damon as a modern Oscar Wilde or something I guess.) I also wanted to note this will probably be finished after The Selfish Giant so it may be a bit of slow burn until that other fic is done being written. Please note the archive warning as this is not technically underage but could easily be construed as such. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Any mistakes are my own. As always, thank you for reading. x
> 
> Also, the narrator perspective is Damon in case it's confusing.

 

 

 

 

 _We are each our own devil, and we make our world this hell.  
_ I write the quote on the board and the chalk screeches as I draw the lines for the two L’s. The symphony of my soul.

In the next few minutes, you will decide whether or not to hate me.

I say, “God, you’re so beautiful,” because for the next few minutes I can. Because for the next few minutes hell is a young, beautiful boy sitting on my lap looking down at me with the most gorgeous brown eyes I’ve ever seen and velvety pink lips that draw all the blood from my veins.

_Lolita, the tips of my fingers taking three steps down. Lolita, when I feel you inside of me, I want to die._

Humbert Humbert had less fucking guilt than I do.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you? I am only telling you these things because I feel like I need to explain myself, to God maybe, or perhaps it’s the Devil. I can’t tell which one is which these days.

 _He came on to me,_ ladies and gentleman of the jury. _It’s legal,_ I say, but my words drip with guilt. I know that doesn’t make it right. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t know any better.

My best friend Jamie used to say that it’s an artist's job is to make order out of chaos. You collect details, look for a pattern, and organize. You make sense out of senseless facts. Draw the line from point a to b. Make sense out of senseless things. Shuffle. Reorganize. Collage. Montage. An artist’s job is to interpret, regurgitate, intimate.

All my life I had made sense out of senseless things. Notes, lyrics, repeating patterns of ivory keys beneath my fingers, melodies in minor B. The white picket fence, the bright white tablecloth, the paint peeling on the walls of the empty nursery, two people smiling in a picture, tea for two. All my life I thought I could make sense of everything, until now.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again. Where was I? I need to start at the beginning, but then the beginning was also the end—you know what I mean?

Before you judge me—and I know that you will—let me just tell you the truth now, straight out, so that you needn't read any further. I am the Devil, and my particular brand of hell is talented, beautiful, and neurotic. He is dark, bitter and sweet like the taste of my morning coffee. My hell has eyelashes for days and a pattern of constellations on his back that I have memorized. My hell is a boy sitting on my lap who loves me, adores me.

And if I’m going to hell, I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.

 

**

 

The first time I take account of him, consciously at least, I’ve already finished two of the white paper cups on my desk—one in the morning, one after lunch. Stoli on the rocks followed by a breath mint just to be safe. I enjoy life’s simple pleasures. The air around the university campus is thick and humid; everything feels sticky. It’s Monday afternoon which means today is Class A, which means I’m teaching music theory for the next two days to non-major students who couldn’t give a fuck about the subject. That is except one pain-in-the-arse, an absolute fucking thorn in my side, skater boy-cum-art-student whose name I can’t remember until he walks right up to my desk, tosses his graded paper marked in angry red onto my desk, looks down the bridge of his nose at me and scoffs.

“I’m not wrong,” he asserts, and pointing to the large, red C on his paper adds, “You are.”

I take a deep breath and exhale. I fixate my eyes, purposeful and determined, on the boy. He’s slightly taller than I am, broad shouldered, small waist, typical introvert artist type—demure, coy, thinks that he’s smarter than everyone else. His hair has seen better days, and it’s clear that he’s never owned a comb. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with the word Slint in big white letters stretched across his chest.

He usually wears thick black frames, a style choice that only serves to reinforce his know-it-all aesthetic, but today I notice that he’s not wearing them. He has large, round eyes—given scant justice by the frames he usually hides them with—and suddenly I’m wondering why I’ve never noticed that his eyes are brown.

He is at all at once obnoxiously arrogant, yet painfully shy, the dichotomy of which he's not lost in his appearance. Without glasses, he looks approachable, handsome even. Or maybe that’s just the two cups of vodka talking.

“I disagree,” I say, and smile with what most likely looks like effort.

“Yeah, well that’s bullshit,” the boy huffs. He appears subdued, cocky even, but underneath his thin facade, I can sense that he’s refraining himself. “I’ve written songs, and I know how music theory works.”

I raise both eyebrows and feign surprise. “Oh really, do you?”

“Yeah I do, you old twat. You’re wrong. And you better give me an A.”

 _Old twat. I’m not that fucking old._ I frown, pick up the piece of paper and read the scribbled name at the top. “Right—Graham, is it?”

“Yeah,” he says and looks at me with childlike disdain. I force back a smile.

“Look Graham, I know that you’re smart. You’ve aced every quiz in this class except for this one.” I pause, lick my thumb and shuffle through the rest of my papers. “How about this? Prove me wrong, and I’ll give you an A.”

The boy looks at me quizzically, but I can see the gears turning in his head. “If you know that I’m smart, then why don’t you just give me an A?”

“Because I’m not wrong,” I say, and flicking my eyes upward give him a careful once-over. “I’m assuming that if you write songs that you must own an instrument?”

“Yeah.”

“What sort of instrument? A guitar I assume?” I test, and the contempt on Graham's face is palpable.

“I play the guitar and saxophone,” he snaps, and it’s clear that I’ve gotten underneath his skin.

“Alright, then.” I glance down at my wristwatch, then begin inserting ungraded papers into my bag. “Tomorrow, after class. Bring your instrument, and we’ll see if your theory holds up.”

Graham scowls. “Fine,” he concedes. “It’s a date.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your lovely comments and kudos. I was pleasantly surprised that people were excited about this fic. I wrote this chapter fairly quickly, so I apologize if there are any mistakes. Thank you for reading, as always. x I enjoy reading your comments!

 

 

 

 

The thing about relationships, or so I've learned, is it’s never all that cut and dry. Televisions and films make you believe that divorces happen theatrically, with lots of fervor and drama. The reality is, it’s never that way. It’s a slow process, a gradual removal of oxygen until the fire can no longer burn, and both parties no longer have the fight left in them to breathe.

She left me slowly, in increments, the same way one tricks a frog into being boiled, one degree at a time. Every day the distance becomes larger, and I see her less and less. When I wake up, there is an absence of her. When I eat breakfast, there is an absence of her. When I sit down at my piano and think, all I can imagine is her sitting in the space next to me with her hands on mine. But now the melody is gone, and I can’t remember what it sounded like anymore.

I still love her. That’s never been the problem. It’s complicated, I guess.

In my defense, I wish I could tell you that I was a great husband and that I would have been a loving father. But I’m not that great of a liar. I wanted a family, but it wasn’t in the cards. I wanted more, but she wouldn’t give it to me, so I started looking elsewhere. I told you I was a good guy.

This morning when I see her, she looks more tired than normal. She’s picking up more of her personal belongings, our furniture having already been divvied, and putting them into tiny boxes. Little details of our life packed into compartments. That’s what it feels like when I talk to her now as if I’m just a compartment to her. A closed door. And no matter how much I stand outside waiting in the cold, she won’t let me in.

I’ve apologized countless times.

Today she’s wearing my favorite tank top, the one that stretches in all the right areas and makes her tits look great. God, I miss her. I wonder if she misses me.

“Hey,” I say as I step into the living room with my coffee cup pressed to my lips.

Justine doesn’t even look at me when she answers. “I’ll be picking up a few more things tomorrow around two. Will you be here?”

 _Two._  Two is my unlucky number. Two is the number of women she caught me cheating on her with after we finished painting the nursery we couldn’t ever manage to fill. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the other three. See? I warned you; I am the Devil.

_Good morning. I love you too._

“Sure,” I mumble and look toward the front window to appear disinterested. A couple passes on the sidewalk, walking hand in hand. Life would be so much easier if people just said how they felt the first time, don’t you think?

“Great,” she says, giving a tight smile. I watch as she gathers the rest of her boxes into her arms makes a beeline for the front door.

“Wait, I can help you—”

“It’s alright,” she interrupts. “I can handle it myself.”

Of course, she can. I frown as I hear the door shutting behind me, and I become aware that my coffee is now lukewarm. I walk to the sink and pour it down the drain.

Today is Tuesday, which means I’m teaching music theory again and English, which means Graham will be meeting me after class, which means I spend five more minutes than usual looking at myself in the mirror for reasons for I’d rather not analyze or pick apart. I’m not sure why the boy makes me so nervous, but he does. It must be something about the way he looks at me at the back of the classroom like he’s trying to figure me out.

I have a brief break at the end of the day, about an hour before my open office hours, and I decide to sneak into the empty auditorium and play the piano for a while. It’s the sort of place I usually go to be undisturbed, to escape, and to postpone the drive home to an empty house. I set my hands alight on the ivory keys and press down. My fingers move with physical memory. A minor to E minor over G, then down to F.

 _Summer_ don’t know me no _more_

E minor, A minor, then repeat.

 _I saw that day_  
_Lost my mind_

  
The auditorium fills with the sound of music, and suddenly I feel entirely alone, completely in my element. Lower the key from F to E minor. My voice is heavy, tired. I can’t sing as high as I used to.

  
_Lord, I'll find_  
_Maybe in time_  
_You'll want to be mine_

The residual sound of E minor echoes against the auditorium walls as I finish, and smoothing my hands over the keys I try to push my thoughts of Justine away. Rising from my seat, I smooth a hand over my forehead and feel dizzy. The vodka’s wearing off at this point, and I’ve worked up a real migraine. I hear someone clearing their voice behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn my head over my shoulder to see Graham peering back at me coyly from the last row in the aisle.

“That was lovely,” he says in a voice so quiet I can barely hear him, and I wonder for a moment if he's flippant.

“I didn’t know I had an audience,” I return coldly, trying my best to save face. “If I had known I would have stopped playing.”

“You shouldn’t have stopped,” Graham counters, then adds, “You have a beautiful voice.”

“Thanks,” I say, doing my best to feign indifference, but a small bass note thrums in my stomach at the compliment. “How did you find me? We weren’t supposed to meet for another hour.”

He shrugs. “I heard someone playing, so I walked in.”

“Right. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of personal privacy.”

Graham gives me a blank, adolescent look that suggests he’s indifferent to anyone’s feelings but his own, then shrugs again. “I brought my guitar. And my amp.”

I motion toward the stage. “Be my guest,” I say, and walking off the stage sit myself down in the first row. He’s wearing another band t-shirt. Today it’s a nineties Pavement tee, new and hardly worn from the looks of it, and most likely picked up off the internet by a company selling nostalgia to teens who romanticize eras they never existed in. Not my thing really, I think as I cross my legs and survey his set up from the seats. He has a bright yellow Telecaster, American-made by the looks of it, and I’m impressed that the kid has enough money to afford one.

“Where are you from, Graham?” I prod.

“Colchester,” he replies, strapping his guitar over his shoulder. A proud and arrogant Southerner. Of course, makes sense.

“Where did you go to school?”

“Stanway Comprehensive.”

I lift an eyebrow and shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Interesting.”

He glowers back at me. He must think that I’m taking the piss out of him. “What?”

“I went to Stanway,” I smile. “Shit school.”

Graham frowns, then softening his body language, nods in agreement. “Yeah. It is.”

“Do they still have that music portacabin in the back?”

“Yeah,” Graham laughs. “That thing is bloody ancient. That was there when you were there?”

I purse my lips together and look down at my wristwatch. “So are you going to play something, or what? I’d rather not waste any more time.”

Graham nods, touches his nose, sticks his pick in his mouth and begins tuning. Within minutes he’s playing a loud and fuzzy lo-fi version of ‘The Beat’ by Elvis Costello, pumped out of his tiny Vox amp on the stage. His song choice amuses me; I wonder if he thought it would impress me.

When he finishes, I muster a refrained smile and clap my hands together. “Not bad,” I lie. The boy is surprisingly talented for his age. Almost too talented, I muse. “Have you had any formal training?”

“Nah,” Graham shakes his head. “I've been playing since I was eleven.” He brings his hand up to his mouth and begins chewing on his thumb. His specs subsequently fall down the bridge his nose, and he pushes them back up immediately and straightens his back, looking nervy. I find it endearing, in a ridiculous way. “I’ll play you my song now if you want.”

I hold my hand up. “No need,” I smile. “You’ve earned your A.”

“But I haven’t even shown you—”

“I trust that you’re capable based on your playing skills.”

I rise from my seat to leave, and Graham frowns. “You just don’t want me to prove you wrong. That’s all it is,” he accuses. “You don’t want your ego hurt.”

“Oh, I’ve got no ego left to bruise, trust me,” I say as I turn my back to him.

“You’re an outstanding musician,” Graham blurts out, and the volume of his voice catches me off guard. “You know they always say those who can’t do teach...but, I think...I think maybe you’re an exception.”

“Ha, thanks for the compliment,” I say, and turning around again head for the exit.

Despite my efforts, Graham shouts at me from the stage again. “You know, I’ve always wanted to learn to play the piano, but I’m no good at it.” He pauses. “I want you to teach me how to play,” Graham replies, seemingly unaffected by my sarcastic tone. He may be a pain in the arse, I think to myself, but he does put up a fight.

I cross my arms and turn to face him.

“I have money,” he adds. “I can pay you.”

“I don’t need your money,” I lie again, to save face. But if I'm honest, the royalty checks were shit this month, and between that and the potential alimony, I know that could use the extra cash.

“Yeah, but you need someone to record your music, don’t you?” Graham blurts out, and I feel my cheeks immediately get red. I’m still not entirely comfortable with the fact that he was spying on me.

“I have—I have keys to a recording studio,” he stutters. “Well I mean, I just intern there. But I have access to the recording equipment, you know. I could help you record some of your songs…” He trails off, but his eyes are still pleading with me. I can’t turn down the poor boy.

"Where at?"

"The Beat Factory. Do you know it?"

"Yeah, I know it." My face softens, and I look down at my hands. “Alright.”

“You’ll teach me then?”

“I’ll tutor you,” I concede, then quickly add, “After class. And only on Mondays. I’m busy the rest of the week.”

When I look up again, Graham’s beaming back and his eyes have completely lit up. He sounds like a child who’s finally given his favorite toy, but it’s just a momentary crack in his veneer. He wipes the grin off of his face and rolls his shoulders back. “Right. It’s a deal then,” he agrees, and as I turn around to leave and hear the boy unplugging himself from his amp, I do everything I can to hold back a smile.

 

**

I'd be lying if I didn't say that I had begun to look forward to Monday afternoons. Knowing that each week that I had something to look forward to besides Justine coming over and picking up more of her things was a welcome distraction. Truth be told, I'd also developed a kind of admiration for the kid after seeing him play. Maybe it was some fatherly instinct I'd never fulfilled that drove me to want to mentor him; I don't know. He took playing music seriously, and he had the talent for it. I could count on one hand how many kids like that had passed through my classroom in the last five years. There were also other things—feelings that I'd been having these last few weeks, uncomfortable ones that made my skin crawl. I tried to tell myself that I was just lonely or it was the vodka talking.

Today, Graham is wearing a black Huggy Bear shirt with the words "our troubled youth" spelled out in scribbled letters at the bottom. It's a flattering piece on him; the fabric holds tight to his chest, accentuating his broad shoulders and long arms. He's all lean muscle—thin but healthy. And when he reaches over to grab his sheet music out of his backpack, his pants are so loose that I can see the tag of his underwear and just above that more than I'm willing to let myself see. I force myself to look away.

"What's wrong?" He asks, sitting down on the bench with me. He fusses with the hair in his face, scrunches up his nose and moves close enough to me so that he can reach the right keys. I shouldn't be so surprised that he's so observant, but I am. I'm beginning to feel more and more anxious when I'm around him.

I shake my head and smile. "Nothing."

"You look miserable," he says bluntly. "I mean you are a miserable bastard most days, but today more so." He pauses, then his gaze lowers to my left hand.

"Are you married?" Graham asks, pointing to the silver band on my ring finger.

"In a way," I frown, then catching myself, give a reassuring smile. "I was, or still am, I guess. Sort of."

"Sounds complicated."

"It is." I grab the sheet paper from his hands, attempting to change the subject. "Do you remember how far did we get last week?"

"What's her name?" Graham probes and I feel a fresh ball of anxiety well up in my throat.

"That's not any of your business, is it?" I snap, and immediately I regret it. Graham recoils, looking more like a kicked puppy than the arrogant but talented student I've gotten to know the past few weeks.

"Sorry," he says, and stares down at his shoes.

"Don't be. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm sorry." I run a hand through my scalp and smile to appease him. It works because he relaxes a bit. "It's just been an exhausting day."

"It's okay," Graham mutters, and I feel even more guilty.

"Alright, well let's start then."

"Um, I was wondering if..."

"What?"

"I was wondering if maybe you would teach me the song I heard you play a few weeks ago." He bites down on his lower lip. "I liked it a lot."

I study him for a moment, trying to figure out if he's joking again, or being flippant, but for what I can tell he looks genuinely interested. I clear my throat. "Sure," I say, and my shoulders relax. "I can teach you it." I motion toward his hands. "Do you remember the A minor chord?"

He nods and presses his fingers down.

"Right, now how about E minor over G?" He frowns, staring down at the piano. I place my hands on top of his, guiding him to the right keys. I feel his fingers tense underneath my mine at first, then relax. "Now, the next chord is F. That's easy."

He moves his hands underneath mine, lifting, guessing, and then waiting for my response. An F note reverberates around the room. "Now over to E minor," I encourage him. "And back to A minor." He presses his fingers down, drawing the last note out and smiles.

"See? Easy enough," I say.

"Is that all of it?"

"That's just the verse. But here, you play the verse, and I'll play the chorus, and you can watch me."

Graham nods, and his cheeks are red. He appears nervous but also enthusiastic. I remember feeling the same way once.

"Alright, now you start."

Graham presses down on A minor, then moves to E minor over G—still a little shaky but not bad for his second time. I place my hands on top of his again and guiding him begin to sing to keep him at the right pace.

 _Summer don't know me no more_  
_Eager man, that's all_

We move back to the beginning, and I can feel him starting to recognize it now as we move through the second verse. As we leave the verse, I remove my hands from his and begin playing the chorus on my own.

 _I saw that day_  
_Lost my mind_  
_Lord, I'm fine_  
_Maybe in time, you'll want to be mine_

Moving back to the verse I motion for him to start without my help this time, and he plays it perfectly the third time. I smile. I finish out the rest of the song, lowering the volume of my voice as I reach the end. I lift my hands off the keys and pat him on the back.

"You played it perfectly," I say, and the glow in his demeanor increases. "I'll teach you the chorus next week."

"That's an incredibly sad song," he says quietly.

I half-smile. "I suppose."

"She must have been pretty amazing," Graham mumbles, then looking extra nervy adds, "Or he. If they're not a she, I mean. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, I shouldn't assume," he stutters, then realizing how badly of a hole he's dug himself into, stares down at his feet.

I blush, somewhat taken aback by his forwardness, but still finding his awkwardness endearing.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I'm not offended. Why would I be?"

"I dunno," Graham mumbles, scratching the back of his head. "Um, I should go, probably." He glances at the clock. "It's a lot later than I thought. I need to get back to my mum's."

 _His mum's._  My stomach turns over, and I feel nauseous thinking about the fact that I've been having feelings about a child who still lives with his mother.

"Sure," I smile and close the piano lid. "I'll see you next week."

Graham grins, and I feel that familiar bass note thrum in my stomach again. Pleasant nausea. Is that a feeling? He pulls his backpack over his shoulders, and turning toward me one last time says, "I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Albarn."

"Oh, Graham. Before you go, one last thing."

"Yeah?"

"Mr. Albarn is my father. Call me Damon." I pause, debating whether or not to reveal more than I'd like to. "And her name is Justine."

"Right," Graham says, biting his upper lip and looking more coy than usual. "I'll see you later then, Damon."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thanks again for all the encouragement you guys have given me for this story, it's been really inspiring. I wanted to get one more chapter before the weekend ends. I apologize for any mistakes, knowing me there are probably a few. I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading. xx

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next time I see Graham he’s running into the auditorium with the sort of grin on his face that suggests he knows something I do not. I’ve barely opened my mouth to greet him before he’s sitting down on the bench and shoving his phone into my hands without a single word or explanation.

I ask, “What is this?”

He stares back at me with wide eyes. “Unlock it, look.”

I look down at his phone and frown. “How?”

He laughs at me. “What, are you serious? Do you have an Android or something?”

“What’s an Android?”

“Jesus, how old are you?”

“I don’t know anything about these smart...things.”

“You mean you don’t know anything about phones.”

“I have a phone,” I assert, pulling my flip phone out of my pocket.

“Jesus, that’s ancient. That should be in a museum or something.”

I frown.

“Look,” he says, unlocking his phone and shoving it back underneath my nose. He presses play and I immediately I see a reflection of myself twenty years younger staring back at me. In the background is the Top of the Pops stage. I look like a right twat with a microphone in my hand and a floppy haircut. I’m introducing Celine Dion before the clip cuts out and Graham grabs the phone back out of my hands.

“That’s you,” He exclaims, as though it weren’t obvious that I could recognize myself. He points to his phone again, as if to drive the point home. “That’s fucking you! You never told me that you were famous.”

“I wasn’t,” I say. “Not really.”

“Bollocks,” Graham retorts. He’s leaning in close enough to my face that I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable. “That was you, on Top of the fucking Pops—what do you mean you weren’t famous?” Graham draws back to catch his breath, apparently upset that I’m not sharing his enthusiasm.

“I was in a band once, a long time ago. That’s it.”

“Not just a band—you were in Seymour! You never told me that. I mean, shit, you wrote Parklife,” Graham continued. His face had become red from shouting. “I’ve even got your fucking CD.” He says excitedly, pulling out a jewel case from his bag and pointing.

“Okay, okay.”

“That’s you,” he says, ignoring me, and points to my picture on the back of the album as though my face isn't evident to me. “Damon Albarn. I knew your name sounded familiar. You look a lot different now. No offense, I mean, it’s just, you were like hot back then, you know? I mean, you’re still okay now, but like—my mum said she had a poster of you in her bedroom when she was my age. Can you believe that?”

Oh. Here comes nausea again.

I hold my hand up to silence him. Graham’s going a hundred miles an hour with no end in sight. “I get it,” I say.  
  
“But then I found this too,” Graham continues, oblivious to my discomfort level. He holds up his phone screen again, and I see a paparazzi photo of Justine and I walking together on the beach. My heart thrums uncomfortably.

“Is that your wife? The one you wrote that song about, yeah? She’s hot.”

I inhale and exhale slowly. I tell myself, he’s just a kid. He doesn’t know any better.

“Jesus, you were like, famous and attractive... How are you my teacher?”

“I wasn’t that famous,” I reassert and placing my hand on top of his wrist, push his phone away.

“What’s wrong? I didn’t offend you, did I?”

“No,” I say, but it’s not a great lie.

Graham’s shoulders visibly sink. “Shit, you are mad at me,” He mumbles.

“No, I’m not.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The sparks in Graham’s eyes light up again, and it’s like one big warning sign: not stopping anytime soon.

“Oh wow, I bet you had sex with loads of beautiful girls, didn’t you?” He moves in even closer, close enough that I can smell the scent of detergent on his t-shirt and now I’m panicking. Now there’s sweat collecting on my forehead.

“And you probably traveled all over the world and played lots of gigs.”

He pauses, chews on his lower lip, and then gives me a curious look. “I mean, no offense but like, why are you a teacher? Shouldn’t you be rich and stuff?”

I open the lid on the piano and smile. “It’s a long, sordid story. Maybe I’ll tell you it some day.”  
  
“Yeah, you definitely should,” Graham replies, and his eyes are practically giant discs now. “I can’t believe that my teacher was a pop star. That’s-that’s insane.”

“I was hardly a pop star. I promise you,” I smile, but the look of adoration in Graham’s eyes gives me that sort of ten-foot high feeling. If he knew the truth, he would think differently, I muse. But it’s a sweet sentiment for now.

“Trust me. It looked a lot more glorious than it was.”

“Maybe,” Graham doubts. “You're pretty cool, though. Yeah. I’ve decided that you're kind of cool for an old bastard,” He says, and then nods as if he’s giving me his blessing.

I feel the warmth of Graham’s eyes on me, admiring me, and all it’s too much. I wish I could pinpoint for my sanity what my attraction to him is. Perhaps it’s jealousy of his talent or his potential, I think. Maybe I’m just confused. Maybe this whole Justine thing has gotten to my head too much. I suspect that I’m just having another midlife crisis. Or maybe it's just God playing another cruel joke on me.

Graham’s leg slides forward against mine when he adjusts his seat, and to the dismay of my willpower, he does not move it. It’s an accidental movement to be certain, but it devastates me nonetheless. I close my eyes, and all I can think about is how close my right hand is in proximity to his left thigh. I imagine how I’d like to lean over and kiss him, not with passion but with the sweetness his naivete deserves. Maybe then it would fill whatever void that’s been keeping me from sleeping at night. Jesus. What's wrong with me? I don’t know who I am anymore.

I’m a teacher, I remind myself, and I clear my throat.

 

**

The next time Graham and I are supposed to have his lesson, he’s fifteen minutes late. Tardiness isn’t unusual for him, but for whatever reason I’m feeling particularly irritated today, and so I lean back and peer out the auditorium doorway, hoping I’ll see his figure somewhere in the distance. Disappointingly, the hallway is empty. I rise from my chair and decide to wander outside for a cigarette. I warrant I’ll see him if he comes in. Either that, or he’ll just have to wait.

I look up just as I reach the double-doors, and that’s when I spot him. He’s standing on the pathway just below the building. Accompanying him is a tall, lanky, dark-haired student with a floppy, androgynous haircut and cheekbones so sharp you could cut paper with them. My attention to my cigarette fades while I watch him stand a little too close to Graham, smile a little too broad. His hand draws an intimate path down Graham’s shoulder, rests at his wrist, then after a beat retracts.

I look away, conscious of the jealous knot inside my stomach, the one that I know shouldn’t be there. Feeling anxious, I flick my half-used cigarette away and watch as the orange ash kicks across the pavement.

When I look up again, Graham's friend is gone, and he is making his way toward me. He looks nervy today, though that tends to be his natural disposition, so I don’t put much stock into it.

He shoots me a weak smile. “Hi Mr. Albarn—I mean, Damon. Um, sorry I’m late.”

“S’alright,” I say, pushing myself off the wall. I cup my hands together and light another cigarette to replace the last one. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I counter. “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

Graham sighs. “Nothing. It’s stupid. You don’t want to hear about it.”

“You’re right,” I agree. “But go ahead.” I take a long look at the bright cherry on my cigarette, telling myself that my concern for the kid is natural.

“I just like someone and they don’t like me back.”

I nod.

“It really… I mean I knew they weren’t….” I arch an eyebrow.

“He’s not gay?” I finish, and Graham turns sheet white. It’s obvious from the look on his face that he’s worried about what I’m thinking.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’m a twenty-first-century man,” I assure him, and his whole posture relaxes instantly.

“How did you—”

“Lucky guess,” I smirk, and Graham’s cheeks immediately turn red.

“I mean…I don’t know what he is.”

“Hmm.”

“One minute I think he’s flirting,” Graham shakes his head, looking lost. “And then the next minute he acts as though he hates me.”

I reach up to cup the back of my head, rubbing the back of my neck as I think about what to say. “Sounds complex.”

“It is. It drives me crazy.” Graham lowers his chin, staring down at his shoes. As he leans forward, I notice two faded, purplish bruises peek out from underneath the collar of his t-shirt. And here I was getting my hopes up.

“So why don’t you just ask him?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” I argue, lifting an eyebrow.

“Because if he knows that I like him, he’ll never want to talk to me again.”

“And how do you know that?” I probe, giving him a sideways look.

“I just do.”

“Well, that’s not fair to him, is it?” I say.

Graham frowns and readjusts the bag on his shoulder. “Yeah, I guess not.” He bites his lower lip. "I 'm just not sure what to do about it, you know?"

“How about this—give him a gift. That way he has to talk to you, and it’s safe because it's sort of…” I trail off, motioning abstractly with my hands. “Platonic. You know.”

Graham lifts his gaze halfway, then bites down hard on his upper lip. The kid might as well be trying to murder me. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk to about it anymore,” he says, and his eyes immediately fall to my hands. “Can I have a fag?”

I consider him for a moment, debating whether or not to probe further. My eyes travel to the marks on his neck again, and a fresh wave of jealousy hits me. I push it back down again.

“Depends,” I say, giving him a dubious look. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” Graham answers, and his tone is indignant. Alright.

Keeping my eyes locked on him, I take a long drag, then reach into my pocket and pull out a fresh cigarette. “This’ll fucking kill you, you know,” I say as I hand it to him.

Graham responds with an offended but appeased glance. “Yeah? Then why are you still doing it?”

“Have you ever heard the expression, how does one eat an elephant?”

Graham coughs as he lights up. “No.”

“Nevermind, then.”

Both of us fall silent, and for the first time, it feels like the conversational tension between us has started to wane. Graham clears his throat, and I see it as an opportunity.

“Look, you’ll be alright. Don’t worry too much about this guy, alright? You’re just a kid,” I say. “You’ve got your whole life in front of you.”

“I’m not a kid,” Graham counters.

“You are a kid,” I correct him. “I was a kid once, I should know.”

Graham frowns, then pinching the fingers holding his cigarette into a V-shape, props his right elbow on top of his left hand. I suddenly realize he’s imitating me.

“Will you show me how to play Parklife if I teach you how to use a cell phone?”

“Ha, very funny,” I smirk, and unconsciously my hand moves to ruffle his hair. He wrinkles up his nose.

“Parhhhk-life,” he enunciates loudly, then turning toward me begins hopping back and forth and playing air guitar.

“Oh you are lovely, aren’t you?”

Graham puffs his chest up mockingly and looks down at me with faux superiority. “Confidence is a preference for the habitual voyeur of what is known as—”

I smirk and pull Graham's hood up over his head and all the way forward so that it completely covers his eyes. “Alright. Come on, you twat. Let’s begin already.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make sure this update ended on a satisfying note—that said, I had to break it into two chapters, so this is an extra long one. Um, the song reference in this is a bit selfish—to be honest whenever I hear the song I smile and immediately think of these two. I've realized that in this AU, Graham and Damon's interests/chemistry would have to be informed by their shared love of music, so, hence the number of song references in this fic, haha. Thank you again for your support and kudos and comments. I apologize for any mistakes, as this is unbeta-ed. Hope you enjoy. xx

 

 

 

 

 

When Jamie sees me for the first time in weeks, the first thing he says to me is that I look like I jumped in front of a train and missed.

It goes without saying that Jamie’s not the sort of person who minces words.

He’s sitting across from me in a booth at his favorite café, fag in hand and coffee comfortably in the other, chemically sedated and satiated. In front of him is a pen and pad full of sketches. One of them is me, drawn with cartoonish resemblance, hair a mess and tired eyes standing at the edge of a tube track. He thinks it’s funny. I do not.

“What’s wrong, mate?” He finally asks, nearly half an hour into our conversation.

I glance up as the waitress passes our table and I order a tomato juice, which warrants a strange look from Jamie.

“Hung over?” He probes, just as the waitress is out of earshot.

“Aren’t we all?” I say and smile at the waitress as she delivers my glass. Reaching into my book bag, I pull out a small flask of vodka and pour a sizable amount into my cup.

Jamie looks back at me, aghast. “Jesus, are you serious?”

“What?” I say, giving him a complacent stare. I screw the lid closed on my flask and nod. “Hair of the dog.”

Jamie grabs my juice and pulls it toward him.

“Hey,” I protest, but Jamie looks back at me unfettered and still in shock. I narrow my eyes. "Come on."

“No, you come on, mate. What’s going on with this sad bastard shit, huh?” He points toward my bag. “You look terrible. You’re drinking like a fish. You’re acting like the whole world’s come down on top of you.”

“Hasn’t it?” I say, and Jamie scoffs.

“Really. What has gotten into you?” Jamie asks me, and when he doesn’t receive an answer, his body language shifts. “Is it Justine again?”

Sighing, I lean back into my seat, stretch my right arm over the top of the booth.

“So that’s a yes,” Jamie confirms, and I purse my lips and give him a fixed stare. “It’s Justine. Of course,” he sighs. “You’ve got to get over her, mate. Really.”

“It’s sort of difficult to get over someone when they keep popping back into your life, Jamie.”

“Well change your fucking locks then,” Jamie says sarcastically, and I roll my eyes.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Then get a new girlfriend. That shouldn’t be hard for you,” Jamie says. “So long as you pretend not to be an arsehole.”

“I don’t want a new girlfriend. I want her,” I deflect.

“She’s not coming back, Dames,” Jamie says and shakes his head. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that before you move on.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jamie tilts his head to the side, lips pursed and eyes wandering as though he’s trying to figure out what to say next. “That very well may be true, but I do know logic and logic suggests that if she just moved in with someone else, then she’s not interested in you anymore, mate.” He looks me straight in the eye. “You gotta get over it. Move on with your life.”

“Well, that’s easy for you to say,” I mutter, my eyes turning toward the window again. “You’re still married.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Jamie leans back, crosses his right leg over his left and takes a sip of his coffee. He looks out the window, and for a brief time we’re both silent, the conversation having fallen into awkward, but amicable territory.

“Have you got anything else going on?” He finally says, turning his attention from the window back to me again.

I arch an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, have you got anything to distract yourself? Anything good in your life, something that makes you happy, you know.”

“Yeah. Vodka.”

“Christ. Besides vodka.” He glares at me. “And I hope you’re fucking joking about that.”

I frown, trying to think of an answer. I chew on the inside of my mouth, and then finally an answer hits me.

“There is one thing, I guess, sort of. It’s nothing though.”

Jamie lifts his chin. “Tell me.”

“It’s stupid,” I frown. “There’s just this kid I’m mentoring, he’s....” I pause, trying to think of the appropriate words to use. “He’s got some potential. He’s sort of," I stall, considering my next few words. "I see a little bit of myself in him I suppose. I don’t know.”

“How old is he?”

I shrug. “I dunno, eighteen, nineteen? I haven’t asked.”

“Hmm.” Jamie nods to himself, taking another sip of his coffee and glancing out the window again. “Well, does he make you happy?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess?”

“Well, then keep mentoring him. Focus on that.” He leans forward. “Don’t focus on Justine.”

I try to smile, but I'm sure it's not working.

“Focus on the positive shit in your life,” he says, patting the top of my hand, and my eyes are drawn to his sketchbook again. My cartoonish face stares back at me. Tired. Exhausted. Visiting the tube sounds like an excellent idea right now, I muse.

"Yeah, maybe."

**

Graham’s not in class today. He never misses my class; this shouldn't bother me, but it does. As soon as my lecture starts, his empty seat in the back row stares back at me, mocking me. I move to the opposite side of the room, avoiding his side, but the lack of his presence is throwing me off. It takes me fifteen minutes before I realize I'm teaching last week's curriculum instead of this one.

After my last session finishes, I remain optimistic. I make my way to the auditorium and prep the various materials we’ll need for Graham's lesson. I wait, and the clock passes five, then five fifteen. I look down at my wristwatch and frown. Part of me is irritated that my time is put to waste, but the other part is anxious that something might have happened. At thirty after, I make an executive decision, pack my things and leave the campus. I stop off at the pub on my way home and, emotionally satiated after a few drinks, crawl my way back toward the tube.

It’s late, and the tube station is vacant and eerie. I hold my bag tight to myself even though I know it makes me look ridiculous. When I step into the train it’s also empty, save for the one lone passenger in the end row who looks up at me briefly, then hides his head as if to signal that he’d rather not be bothered. Sighing, I sit down and place my bag between my legs. I feel good, I’ve got a slight buzz going but not too much, just enough to help me slide into bed and sleep without my mind racing. I lean forward, pressing my middle fingers to both temples.

When I look up, the single passenger at the end of the row has moved again. Now his back is facing me, and the behavior strikes me as odd. He looks familiar, although I can’t place him. The back of his head only reveals so much, and so curiosity getting the better of me, I rise from my seat and make my way to the back of the train.

He jolts when I get closer, and I immediately recognize it as Graham’s signature body language—nervy.

“Graham?” I try, and he turns to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot and red. His hoodie is pulled completely over his head, casting a shadow over his face. It’s difficult to see his expression in this light, but I can make out that he is crying. He looks up, aware that I've noticed this vulnerability, and wipes his face in one long stride with the sleeve of his hoodie. The sound it makes is less than pleasant to the ear.

“What are you doing on the tube so late?”

Graham gives me a brief acknowledgment before staring down at his shoes, despondent. “I’m sorry that I missed your class.”

I slide into the seat next to him, lobbing him a concerned look. “You still didn’t answer my first question.”

“I know,” Graham says, and swallows. I study him for a brief moment, content to be able to in a context that seems appropriate. He is pale usually, but pallid under the fluorescent light. Sticky trails of half-dried saline shine on his cheeks. I have the unhealthy urge to kiss his forehead and pull him into my arms. I have a lot of urges these days.

“It’s a long story,” he says, and I look down at my wristwatch.

“Well, I’ve got time for one.”

Graham opens his mouth, hesitates, then kicks his right leg up against the seat and stares at it. “My mum—my mum and dad kicked me out.”

I rub the bridge of my nose with my thumb and index finger, not confident that I've heard him correctly. “They kicked you out?”

“They caught me hanging around with boys,” Graham wavers, and my heart drops like a stone.

“Hanging around with boys?”

"Messing around with boys," Graham corrects me, holding my gaze for a solid second before breaking away again.

My eyes light up. I nod. “I see. So that’s why you’re here, on the train.”

"I was going to ride it until they kicked me off," he says, lowering his voice. "I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“What about your friends?”

Graham kicks his other leg up onto the seat, and his fringe falls forward over his eyes. “I don’t have any friends,” he says.

“Well, what about your mate at school? You know, the tall, dark one—”

“He’s not that kind of friend,” Graham interrupts, and his tone of voice is markedly defensive. I decide not to press it. Graham lifts his gaze to the window. Even now with his back turned to me, the glass mirrors his fractured expression against the darkness outside, and I can tell that he is trying to hide the fact that he is crying.

“His parents don’t know either. He doesn’t want me coming around letting them know he’s got a problem too.”

I lean back into my seat and frown.

“You have nowhere else to go?”

Graham shakes his head, and for a brief moment, he's so distant that I can't help but think that he looks like a subject in a photograph or a character in a movie I'd like to touch and hold and comfort but I can't.

“What about your aunt, uncle...cousin?” I try. “Second cousin?”

Graham shakes his head again, and I can see the tears in his eyes beginning to well up once more.

“Right,” I say, and bite my tongue. Graham looks helpless. His eyelashes are wet, nose red, and arms and legs all twisted up inside himself. Large headphones hang around his neck, and the soles of his sneakers are worn down to holes. He looks small, like a lost animal that's run away with its leash. I can't help but feel pity for him. Even the cruel, selfish bastard inside of me that wants to tell him, ‘well good luck, kid’ can’t win this one.

“You can come and stay with me,” I concede, then quickly add, “but only for tonight. That’s all I can offer. You’ll have to call your parents tomorrow and get this all sorted. Alright?”

He nods, and I see his eyes light up for the first time tonight.

"Thank you, Mr.—"

"Damon," I correct him and smile.

He gives me a weak, but hopeful grin. It crushes me. "Thanks, Damon."

"You're welcome," I sigh, staring out the window of the tube. I'm trying not to think about how Graham staying over makes me feel. Lately, my thoughts about him have felt like a quiet infestation. I know they exist, I know I need to do something about them, but I refuse to acknowledge them. I refuse to accept how Graham's shoulder pressed against my arm right now makes me feel. I refuse to accept how intuitive our conversations are, or the way we play music together as if we've done it for years.

I refuse to accept how he can sometimes read me so accurately that it's almost like we knew each other in another life. To agree to that dark and shadowy and morally ambiguous part of my mind would mean I am guilty of feelings and desires from which I can not run away. I've already ruined my life once. I can't afford to do it again, so I make a note to force those thoughts down with more liquor when I get home.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

When Graham enters my apartment building, the first thing he says is, “I thought it’d be nicer,” and now I’m regretting being a good samaritan. The mouth on this kid would test the patience of saints.

I look over my shoulder at him and scowl. "It is nice," I say. "For a flat in London at this price, it’s very nice.”

“But for a pop star?” Graham tilts his head and grimaces. “Nah.”

“I told you, I’m not a pop star. And I certainly don’t live like one.”

“Well that last part is right,” Graham quips, and I take a long, deep breath.

Graham’s eyes widen to large white discs as he enters my flat. The first thing he sees is the shelf holding my record collection, and chucking his bag to the floor, makes a beeline for that side of the apartment.

“Holy shit,” he exclaims, and I can’t help but smile at how excited he looks. His fingers hover over the various old and new record spines, eyes darting back and forth before he asks, “can I look at them?”

“Sure,” I nod and pick his backpack up off the ground, placing it in the guest room.

“Ooooh,” Graham awes, pulling out a few records. “You’ve got Specials 45s, and The Jam, The Undertones, and shit...Wire too? That's amazing. Where’d you get all these?”

“How young do you think I am?” I joke, but Graham doesn’t seem to get it. “I bought those when I was a kid. In the eighties.”

“Woah,” Graham says, his eyes enthusiastically pursuing various vinyl covers. He holds up one of the Buzzcocks 45s. “I’ve never even seen this single in real life. Can we listen to it?”

“Sure,” I say and smile, taking the record from him loading it onto the player. I drop the needle down, and the fuzzy sound of Steve Diggle's guitar and Pete Shelley’s voice fills the room.

 _You spurn my natural emotions_  
_You make me feel I'm dirt and I'm hurt…_

Graham sits with his legs splayed out on the floor, lip syncing to the lyrics and imitating the bar chords. His messy fringe falls forward in front of his eyes, and he shakes it out of the way and beams at me. God, I do need a drink.

I pull open the cupboard, procure a bottle of spirits, and place it on the kitchen bar. My hand reaches for two glasses. I hesitate. He’s old enough, right?

“Would you like a drink?”

 _And we won't be together much longer_  
_Unless we realize that we are the same_

Graham has his head buried inside the inner sleeve of a record. He peers up at me from the couch. “Sure.”

“What do you, uh—”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he answers, and my shoulders relax.

I place ice into both glasses and pour each of us a serving of scotch. I saunter back to the living room and plant a drink in his potted palm, offering a half-hearted toast. “Cheers.”

_Ever fallen in love, in love with someone_

Graham sniffs the glass and looks up at me. “What's this, whiskey?”

“Scotch,” I correct him. “Not my thing really, but it's appropriate for guests.”

Graham presses his drink to his lips and downs all of it before I can say another word. He grimaces at the taste, then sets the glass down on the coffee table with a loud clunk.

I arch an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to sip on it, you know.”

Graham looks back at me with his cheeks red, embarrassed. “Oh, that’s how my friends drink, so I thought—”

I wave a dismissive hand. “It’s alright,” I smirk. “You didn’t know.”

 _Ever fallen in love, in love with someone_  
_You shouldn't have fallen in love with_

The song ends, and the sound of the needle being lifted off the 45 and pushed back into place sounds all the more jarring in the midst of our silence. Graham breaks eye contact again, bites at his fingernails then surveys the room as if he’s trying to figure out something to say.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, wringing his hands. “For letting me stay here tonight.”

“You’re welcome,” I smile. “There’s a guest room down the hallway. Last door to the right. It’s in the middle of being painted…” I pause, feeling a slight stab of pain in my gut. “Well, we were painting it, so it’s a bit of mess. There’s a bed there you can sleep on.”

Graham gives me a long stare. His eyes are somber but curious. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure.”

“Are you an alcoholic?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “What?” I ask, thinking that I haven’t heard him correctly.

Graham opens his mouth again. “Are you an—”

“I’m not—I am not an alcoholic,” I stammer, and I can feel my face getting red.

“Then why do you drink so much?”

“Jesus, you’re a forward kid, aren’t you?” I grimace, taking the last sip of my drink and setting it down on the table.

I lean back into the couch, simmering, but as soon as Graham lowers his chin and peers up at me with his large round eyes, my defenses are down again. “I mean, you just seem…” He hesitates. “You just seem sad, you know?” His eyes draw a circle around the room. “You’ve had all these amazing things happen to you, but you’re still sad. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Amazing?" I laugh. "More like painful,” I counter, but Graham still looks at me as though he doesn’t understand.

“Can I have another drink?”

“Asks the boy who calls me an alcoholic. Where are my manners? Of course,” I say, before picking up his glass and throwing him a sardonic look.

Graham's gaze follows me like a hawk as I move behind the kitchen bar. “Is that a no?”

Pursing my lips, I pour more scotch into both of our glasses and gripping both by the rim walk across the living room and place one in his hand.

“Thanks.”

“Courtesy of your friend, the alcoholic,” I say, giving a mocking bow. I collapse onto the couch. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

I watch as Graham raises the glass to his lips again, but purposefully this time, making sure to take small sips. After a beat, he clears his throat, then asks, “how old are you?”

“Old enough,” I joke, and Graham rolls his eyes.

“Stop playing. I want to know.”

“Seventy-five.”

“Come on,” he says, poking me in the ribs.

“Sixty,” I say, and Graham frowns. I turn to face him. “Why don’t you guess then? Hurt my feelings some more. Yeah, that sounds like an excellent idea.”

Graham studies me, then narrows his eyes. “Thirty-five,” he says. I turn my head and look at him with narrowed eyes.

“Really?”

“Am I hot or cold?”

God, don’t ask me that.

“I don’t know,” I reply, shaking my head. “Warm-ish, I guess.”

“Forty, then.”

“Forty-two.”

“Wow,” Graham awes, scanning my face with enough scrutiny that it's starting to make me uncomfortable. “You don’t look that old.”

I lob an indignant look. “That’s cause I’m not that fucking old.”

Graham continues to study me, ignoring my sarcasm. “You have lovely eyes,” he says quietly. Suddenly I’m beginning to feel even more self-conscious. I lean back further into the couch, creating some distance between us.

“I’d love to paint you...if you would let me.”

I tilt my head to the side, surveying him. “You paint?”

“Yeah,” Graham replies, looking defensive. “I’m a painting major.”

“You never told me that.”

“Well, I am.”

“Well," I say, raising both eyebrows.

“What?”

“Sounds like a waste of talent to me.”

Graham's expression shifts from defensive to mildly offended. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I say, setting my emptied scotch glass down on the table. “You are one in a million, Graham. Do you know how many students pass through my class that have the sort of musical talent that you do? Just guess.”

“I don’t know…”

“Just you. You’re the only one,” I say. “And believe me, plenty of those kids want to be rock stars or famous or whatever—and some of them have the drive. But they don’t have what you have.”

“And what’s that?”

“Talent.”

Graham falls silent, and his eyes linger on me for longer than normal. I press my glass to my lips to hide my expression.

“Do you mean that? Do you honestly think that I have that much talent?”

“Of course I do,” I reply. “Do I come off as the type of person who blows smoke up people’s arses?”

“No. Not really.” Graham mumbles, and there's a sort of drunken glow about him now. He leans back, lifts his chin, and grins. “I’m a bit tipsy.”

“Already?”

“Aren’t you too?”

I laugh. “No.”

"We should fix that," Graham says, giggling, and I'm starting to realize he's a cheaper date than I thought he was.

I look down at my wrist watch. “On that note, I think I should head to bed.” I rise from the couch and smooth a hand through my scalp.

Graham grabs me by the wrist, and I feel my stomach roll over. "Noooo," he drawls. "Sit down. You need to drink more."

I raise my eyebrows. "Obviously I don't if you're calling me an alcoholic."

"No." Graham shakes his head and frowns. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, I just..." He tugs on my wrist again, urging me to sit down. "You're just so mysterious sometimes."

"Mysterious?"

Graham smiles, lifting himself up off the couch and walking backward toward the kitchen. "Yeah, you're so defensive, like you have all these secrets."

"Secrets?"

"Yeah, secrets," Graham smirks as he reaches for the liquor cabinet. He pours both of us another serving.

"That's a waste of good scotch because I'm not drinking anymore."

"Yes, you are." Graham grins at me from the kitchen with that big toothy grin he only does when he's not self-conscious and Christ, I need to stop.

"Do you realize how expensive that bottle was?" I say, eyeing him with contempt, but Graham has a mischievous look on his face. Screwing the lid back onto the bottle, he bites down on his lower lip and looks up at me. Fuck.

I rub both of my eyes and run my fingers through my scalp. Graham gives me a fresh glass of scotch and toasts me. I look down, considering it, then set it down on the coffee table.

"Aren't you going to drink it?"

I shoot him a sideways glance. "Are you trying to get me drunk or something?"

Graham presses his glass to lips, hiding his expression.

"So that's a yes," I jeer. "It's a school night you know."

Graham looks at me, then at my glass, then back at me again. He picks it up, turns my arm over, and places it in my hand. I'm continually amazed at the forwardness of this kid.

"Alright, one more," I concede, and sink back into the couch. "Will that make you happy?"

Graham nods.

I take a long sip, and my mind wanders to our earlier conversation. My eyes flick upward, surveying Graham's neck, looking for the bruises I saw there previously. They are faded now, and hardly noticeable.

Graham's eyes travel to my book shelf again. "What's that?" He asks, pointing to a framed piece of artwork.

"Oh, that's..." I sigh. "That's a long story."

Graham gets up from the couch grabs the frame, and brings it back to look at it more closely. "Are these...cartoon characters?"

"Ehh, sort of. Yeah, I suppose."

"Did you draw these?"

"No, my friend Jamie did."

"Jamie...?"

"Jamie Hewlett. He's a comic book artist. He did uhh..." I look up, trying to remember the name.

"Tank Girl?"

I give Graham a strange look. "How did you know?"

"I love Tank Girl," he says, incredulous. "He's amazing. Holy shit, you're friends with him?"

"Yeah."

"Wow, you are so cool." Graham beams at me. "How are you so cool?"

"I am not cool."

"So what are these for?" He says, pointing to the four sketched out characters in the frame.

I grimace. "It was, I dunno...it was a sort of a collaborative project. It never really worked out."

"Like how?"

I shake my head. "It's dumb. I don't particularly want to talk about it."

"No, I want to know."

I take a deep breath, then another long sip of my drink. "We were playing around with the idea of an animated band."

"What do you mean?"

"The idea was that Jamie would create the drawings and I would make the music." I wave a dismissive hand. "It was a stupid idea."

Graham looks at me indignantly. "Why is that stupid?"

"Because no one wanted to fund it," I smile tightly.

"Why?"

I smile tightly and begin chewing on my bottom lip. "I don't want to talk about it really."

"Oh," Graham says, holding the frame in both hands. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry."

"Is that why you're so sad, then? Because your project didn't work out?"

I rub my eyes again, covering my face with my hands. "Graham."

"What?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's alright," I say, and without thinking pat him on the knee. My drunken brain takes a minute to realize what I'm doing. I pull my hand away and shake my head. "Sorry," I mumble. "I should probably head to bed—"

"Wait," Graham says, touching my wrist again, and I almost hate him for it. "I've got something for you."

"You've got something for me?" I laugh and pull my hand away.

"Yeah, um. Wait here. It's in my backpack." Graham leaves the room, and I fall back on the couch with a sigh. I'm feeling slightly more than buzzed now, the previous drinks from the pub having compounded on top of the other ones. I can tell that the alcohol's lowered my inhibitions to a dangerous level because now when Graham touches my wrist, I don't feel dread.

When Graham walks back into the room, he has both hands hidden behind his back and a sly grin on his face.

I smile."What?"

"I hope you like it," he says and pulls out what appears to be an autographed Specials vinyl. "I was going to give it to you earlier today, but you know," he mumbles and looks down at his hands. "Anyway."

My eyes widen with curiosity as I scan the cover. Terry Hall's name is indeed there, autographed in black marker underneath the plastic protective sleeve. "Graham, where did you—"

"I found it on the internet," Graham says, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and then adds, "I uh, I read that you like Terry Hall a lot. You do, right?"

I feel the blood rush to my face, and there's a little thrum in my stomach again.

"If you don't want it, I'll take it back. It's alright," Graham stammers, biting his nails. I shake my head, still somewhat in shock at the thoughtfulness of Graham's gift, and stare down at the cover for a long time.

"Graham, you didn't have to do this. You couldn't afford this, I'm sure. I can't accept—"

Graham's face falls immediately. "Are you saying that you don't want it?"

"No, that's not it. Thank you, this is wonderful. It's incredibly thoughtful." I beam at him. "But Graham, this is way too expensive—"

"It doesn't matter how much it was. It's a gift," Graham says, and swallows. I notice his shoulders tense as he waits for me to respond. After a few seconds, he finally breaks eye contact with me and begins to pick at his fingernails.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he mumbles, and his body language has changed completely.

"It's isn't nothing," I counter, carefully placing the record on the table. "Did I offend you?"

"No..." Graham shakes his head. "I think, I think I ought to go to bed now. It's late, you know."

"Wait, hold on," I say, and reach out to grab him lightly by the wrist. He's stiff, apparently surprised by the sudden body contact. "I must have said something wrong, what was it?"

Graham opens his mouth to speak, then stops. He looks past me, behind my head and out the window as if he's afraid to speak directly to my face. "Nothing. You didn't say anything wrong. I just," he hesitates. "I just did what you told me to do."

I frown, not understanding his meaning, and then finally, it hits me. My eyes widen.

Graham looks up at me briefly, then away. His face is bright red. "I'm sorry, I wasn't sure if you were, so..." he says, pulling his hand his hand away. "I'm going to go."

"Wait," I say, grabbing him again. "Just hold on."

Graham gives me a pleading look, and now I'm starting to feel even more guilty. He's already embarrassed, and now I'm just making it worse.

"It's alright, I'm just an idiot that's all," he says, and laughs, using his hand to cover his face.

"Graham."

"What?"

"You are not an idiot. Look at me."

Graham lifts his head, and he looks as though he's on the verge of tears again. "Hey," I say, lifting his chin with my hand. "Don't cry."

"I know, I shouldn't—"

"No." I shake my head and lightly brush my thumb across his left cheek. His eyes meet mine with caution; his defense walls are back up again, and I can't blame him for feeling self-conscious. "This isn't me telling you to man up or any of that bullshit."

A few tears roll off Graham's cheeks onto his legs, and so he crosses them, along with his arms. It's an attempt to maintain composure, undoubtedly, but he's failing at it miserably.

"It's just that seeing you cry makes me feel bad," I say, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. "What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm already too much of a miserable bastard, so don't make it worse, alright?" I laugh, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

Graham laughs again and wraps his arms around his sides. He turns to me and smiles. “Damon,” Graham asks quietly. He looks as though he's weighing something.

"What?"

"You're sweet," he says and leans forward to kiss me square on the cheek. He pulls back, looking scared, but proud of himself. "Sorry," he says, and the feeling of scotch and Graham's lips on my cheek makes it feel like the whole world's spinning. "You can slap me now if you want to." He looks down, picking at his fingernails.

"I'm not going to slap you," I lean in and place my hand on his shoulder, hugging him with my left arm. He yelps when my fingers tickle his side, and it's the sort of lightheartedness we need to break the moment. He soon returns the favor, grinning and poking at my sides until I turn bright red and climb off the couch to get away from him.

I collapse halfway onto the floor, my legs still propped up on the couch and my head on the ground, peering up at him and laughing. "Stop," I beg, holding my arms over my sides. "That's way worse than what I gave you."

Graham beams back at me, and rolling off the couch joins me on the ground. He turns over onto his side, head propped up on his left elbow, and looks at me as though he's weighing something. Without a word, he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. I feel my heart stop.

I don't say anything at all because I'm not sure what to say, and before I can think to, Graham's lips are on my cheek again. He's testing me, this much I can tell. No doubt the liquid courage of the alcohol is a factor, well, that and the fact that I'm not stopping him. I tear my eyes away from the ceiling and force myself to meet his gaze. He is pallid, short of breath, and from the looks of it, terrified.

My breath becomes shallow as he places his right hand on top of my stomach, and pressing himself forward kisses me directly on the lips. He pulls back immediately, as though having touched a hot stove with his bare fingers, scanning for an adverse reaction, and when he finds none, leans in again.

This time he stays longer, and my lips begin to move instinctively, pushing back with force. He's surprised by my reaction because I can see goosebumps rise on his neck as I lean more aggressively into the kiss. Graham has me pinned in such a way that I can't move, but I don't mind. I cup my hands against the small of his back and pull him against me. He is all lean muscle, taut and firm against me. Shifting, I slide my right arm under his elbow and circle it around his waist. I run my tongue over his bottom lip, and I can feel his pulse begin to race.

The kiss itself isn't very long, but it seems like slow motion. I hold it long enough for Graham to start kissing me back, and as soon as his tongue starts to explore the space between my lips, I pull myself away from him.

I sit up, creating some distance between us. "We can't do this."

Graham looks wounded, heartbroken. "Why?"

"I'm old enough to be your father," I say, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, the remaining hope in Graham's eyes fizzles out.

"I don't care if you're older—"

"That doesn't make it alright," I interrupt. "It's wrong. And incredibly dangerous. I shouldn't have even let you stay here," I shake my head. "I could lose my job."

"But I'm not going to tell anyone, I swear—"

"Graham, stop. Stop." I say, holding my hand up. "This whole thing was a big mistake. I'm going to take you back to your parent's tomorrow. End of conversation."

Graham looks sore or wounded. I'm not sure which. The look on his face tears at my heart. I want to be candid with him. I want to tell him everything.

"I'm sorry," he says, without looking at me, and for the second time that night I feel like the worst person in the world.

"Don't be," I say, and I feel the guilt weighing heavy on my shoulders. "It's not your fault. You're just a kid."

Graham looks up at me with contempt as I say the last word, and I realize how demeaning it must sound. I'm calling him a child. Me, the tall child holding a glass of scotch, having a conversation I don't understand with another child.

Yeah, Justine was right. I am an asshole.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this during a vertigo spell today, so hopefully, there are not too many mistakes, but chances are there's probably a few since my screen's been spinning. I've loved hearing what people are thinking about the story and character development so far. It's an interesting characterization tightrope to walk, but one I'm enjoying, so your feedback has been immensely inspiring. Thank you again for reading, and I hope you enjoy. xx

 

 

 

 

 

Regret would not be the right word to describe how I feel when I wake up the next day. Remorse, maybe? No. Guilt at the brief lapse in my judgment and morality while intoxicated? You could say we're good bedfellows. To be honest—none of those particular sentiments would justify the myriad of emotions racing through my brain right now.

My head refuses to move past the thought of Graham kissing me last night, knowing that he wanted me just as much as I wanted him. Wanting sex isn't the issue, not for me anyway. I've slept with my fair share of men and women. I could even say I fell in love with some of them, for a time. Some for just a drunken night, some longer. But I've only ever missed two of them like this.

And therein lies the rub, I guess.

Graham's already gone by the time I wake up, which leaves a pit in my stomach as I step in the shower and get ready for the day. I don't expect to see him again, perhaps even for lessons after what happened last night. I wouldn't blame him either. By all rights, he should hate me for allowing him to get that far without telling him to stop.

Justine's left a message on my machine. She'll be over tomorrow, she says, to pick up more things. There's also a text from Jamie that reads, "pub tonight? Meet at your flat?"

Unfortunately, my assumptions about Graham turn out to be correct—he's not in class today, and even though I've prepared myself for the disappointment, it still stings. After my classes are over, I file my things neatly into my book bag and grab my bike to head home to meet Jamie. Part of me wonders if I make a point to get laid tonight, maybe I'll feel better. Maybe that's all I need, I muse—just a long wank or a good lay.

I'm in the middle of unlocking my bike from its chain when a familiar kid with dark hair and sharp cheekbones stops me. I recognize him as Graham's friend, the one I'd seen talking to him a while ago. He's not much taller than me, but just enough that it feels intimidating.

"Hey, are you Damon?"

"Depends," I say, giving the kid a once-over. What was his name again? Alex? At first glance, he reads particularly androgynous, mostly because of the long black fringe that frames his face. It's easy to see why Graham likes him. He's classically handsome—thin, tall and long; a fashion designer's wet dream. A fag hangs loosely from his lips, effortlessly cool. He looks the type I would have unquestionably invited back to my hotel room years ago, in another life, just so that I could knock him down a few notches.

"Why?"

"I'm just curious if you've seen Graham around lately. He usually hangs out with you after school, doesn't he?"

I frown, then quickly glancing around my surroundings say, "Yeah. I saw Graham yesterday. Why?"

"I haven't been able to find him," Alex says, and it's evident from his expression that he's anxious to get an answer from me. "He's not answering his phone or texts. I haven't seen him since before yesterday. I'm that surprised you did." Alex's tone of voice is more accusing than I'd like it to be. I wonder how much Graham has told him.

"Did Graham say anything to you yesterday? Was he upset at all?"

"No," I lie. "Graham didn't tell me anything."

"Hmm." Alex taps his foot, then removes his fag from his lips and gives me a fixed stare as though he doesn't quite believe me.

"I'm sure he's alright," I reassure him, and I hope to God that I'm right.

"Yeah. It's just. Sometimes Graham gets a bit..." Alex waves his hand around as though he's trying to find the appropriate words. The smell of smoke coming from his cigarette throws me, and I grimace. "Mental, you know?"

"No, I don't know."

Alex tilts his head, narrowing one eye at me as if he's trying to figure me out. "Like, he loses the plot a bit? I mean, more than most people." He places his fag between his lips again and sighs. "I just worry about him."

"Right. Well," I say, and give Alex a tight smile.

"Thanks anyway," Alex says, flipping his fringe back and combing his fingers through his hair in the sort of way that makes me hate him. He sticks out his hand. "I'm Alex, by the way."

An androgynous name as well. Of course.

I smile. "Pleasure."

"Hey, will you just do one thing for me?"

I nod, irritated for reasons I know are beyond just being inconvenienced. I have a clear visual of Alex's mouth on Graham's neck that I can't seem to shake.

"Will you let me know if you see Gra?"

"Gra?"

"Graham. Gra. That's just what call him, you know. It's a nickname."

"Right," I say, shooting him another plastic smile. "Well, I've got to be somewhere, but good luck with that, uh..."

"Alex," he finishes, smirking at me.

Yeah, fuck off.

"I'll see you around then, Damon," he says, shifting on his heel. He spins around. "Hold on," he adds, narrowing his eyes at me. "Gra told me you used to be a pop star or something? Is that right?"

I frown. "Sort of."

"Anything I'd recognize?" Alex says, strumming an invisible guitar.

"I doubt it."

"Right," he says, winking at me. "You're just like he told me you were."

"And what's that?"

"A miserable bastard," Alex says, grinning from ear to ear, and I take a long, deep breath as he walks away.

**

It's raining by the time I bike all the way home, and while my clothes aren't completely soaked, I'm still wet enough to feel uncomfortable. Jamie's supposed to be arriving in a few minutes, and I'm already behind schedule so, carrying my bike over my shoulder, I run up the stairs as quickly as possible.

Balancing my bike, I look down, fishing blindly for my keys in my bag. Upon reaching my door, I look up and freeze. Graham is sitting on my doorstep, with both arms wrapped around his legs. He stares back at me, wide-eyed and wordless, and for about five seconds I can't decide whether or not to be livid or to pull him into my arms out of relief.

"What are you doing here?"

Graham lifts himself up off the ground. "Sorry to bother you," he mumbles and brushes past my shoulder to get to the stairs.

As Graham descends the stairway, I set my bike down. "Hey, hold on a minute," I yell, peering down at the top of his head.

I barely catch him as he reaches the exit of the building, my hand reaching out to grab him by the collar of his jacket just in time. "Hey."

He scowls at me. "What?"

"Where are you going?

"Why do you care?" Graham mutters, pushing my hand off his back.

"Hey, look at me," I say, placing my hand on his shoulder again. "Yeah actually, it does matter. What's going on? I didn't see you in class today, and now, out of the blue, I come home to find you sitting on my doorstep. Not to mention, your friend was looking for you."

"My friend?"

"Yeah, the tall one."

"Alex?"

"Yeah. He's your friend, isn't he?"

Graham breaks eye contact and kicks at the wall with his shoe.

"Look, are you going to tell me what's going on or what?"

"Why do you even care? You don't give a shit," Graham spits, and for the first time since the train, I feel even more distant from him.

I turn my head away. Taking a deep breath, I grab his hand and begin pulling him back up the stairs. "Come on."

Lagging behind a few feet, Graham follows me up the stairs to the second floor. He pulls his hoodie over his head as he enters my flat and makes a direct line toward the couch. I trail behind him, and as soon as he collapses onto the cushions, I hold my hand out.

"Phone," I say.

He looks at me indignantly. "What?"

"Hand me your phone."

"Why?"

"Give it to me," I repeat, and scowling, Graham reaches into his back pocket to hand it over. "And unlock it." He rolls his eyes.

"I'm calling your parents."

"Why?"

"Because you can't stay here and I'm not letting you leave without somewhere to go."

"They're not going to answer, I'm telling you."

I look down at Graham's phone, scrolling through his contacts until I find the name "Mum" and press on it. I hold the phone to my ear and wait patiently as the phone rings. After a few rings, the phone goes to voicemail.

"I told you. They aren't going to answer," Graham says, looking indignant. His boots are still on, and he has his legs crossed on my couch. I could kill him.

"Take your shoes off," I chide, and frowning he reaches down to untie his laces.

I redial Graham's mother's number, hoping the second time will be the charm, but I'm met with the sound of voicemail again.

There's a loud knock on the door, and Graham nearly jumps off the sofa. Jamie has always had impeccably bad timing. I frown and hand Graham's phone back to him.

I open the entryway to see Jamie balancing an umbrella in one hand and his soaked jacket in the other. Sparing himself any niceties, he lets himself in, huffing as he throws his coat to the floor.

"Good hell, it's bloody awful out there, isn't it?" He comments, handing me the umbrella. He gives me a quick once-over. "You look like shit too."

"Thanks," I say, looking from Jamie to Graham, then back to Jamie. It takes Jamie a few more seconds of swearing and huffing around my apartment before he becomes aware of Graham's huddled presence on the couch.

"Oh." Jamie arches an eyebrow. "You didn't tell me that you were having guests," he says, nodding toward Graham.

"I wasn't," I hint, and Jamie gives me the sort of look that suggests he doesn't believe me.

"Jamie, this is Graham," I say, nodding toward the couch. "Graham, Jamie."

"Pleasure," Jamie says and smiling, holds his hand out. Graham looks at me before responding.

"Wait, are you Jamie Hewlett?"

Jamie laughs, a bit uncomfortably. "How'd you know?" He asks, before turning around and giving me an accusatory stare.

Behind Jamie's back, Graham's eyes are getting wider and wider. Before anything else gets out of hand, I hold my hand up to interject.

"Graham's a big fan," I explain.

"Oh, is he?"

"Huge actually," I clarify, amused by the fact that tell Jamie can't discern whether or not I'm flippant.

"I have every Tank Girl comic you've ever done," Graham blurts out, with stars in his eyes. "I've even got your 2000 AD issues. You and Alan Martin are geniuses. Well, except for the movie. That was awful, no offense," Graham adds, and Jamie looks back at me as though he's not sure what I've unleashed on him.

Oblivious to Jamie's discomfort, Graham continues, "And you know the 1991 annual Judge Dredd cover you did, I've got that one too," He boasts, and finally I see Jamie grin.

I'm a passive observer for the next hour and a half. I find the dialogue between Graham and Jamie too amusing to interrupt for the sake of the pub, so I begin to make dinner instead. Both of them are a good match; it seems Graham's happy to fawn over one of his idols, and Jamie seems content to get the celebrity attention he's not typically used to receiving.

At half past seven, I walk into the living room and place my hands on Jamie's shoulders. Jamie looks down at his watch, and then up at me, and frowns.

"Shit. I lost track of time. We're a bit late for the late for the pub now, aren't we?"

"I made dinner," I say and Graham perks up.

"What is it?"

"Pasta with vegetables."

I look down at Jamie, squeezing his shoulders. "Jamie?"

Jamie places his hand over mine and turns around to look at me. Over his shoulder, I see Graham fidgeting on the couch.

"Oh, you know what, I don't want to impose on your plans with him," Jamie says, nodding toward Graham.

"You're not imposing at all," Graham interrupts before I can say anything.

"Graham's right. You're not imposing. If anything it's you and I that was imposed upon," I say, and Graham gives me a sour look.

"Hmm," Jamie hums, sliding his hand up my arm. "Well, if you're going to pull my leg, then I guess I'll take your offer." He stands, giving me a faux look of flirtation before turning to Graham.

"Damon's a brilliant cook, believe it or not," Jamie teases. "Giant pain in the arse the rest of the time, but the man can cook a fucking egg."

"Oh, fuck off."

"Gladly," Jamie returns, then leans in and kisses me directly on the lips. Somehow, I'm not surprised to see the look of contempt on Graham's face when he does it.

Dinner rolls on uneventfully for the most part, with Jamie and Graham continuing the same conversation they were having before about comic books and me staying the silent observer. I stare down my plate the majority of the time, divvying my food into little piles, and thinking about the inevitable conversation that Graham and I will have to have after Jamie leaves. There's a sudden drop in the conversation, and when I glance up again, Graham is looking right at me.

Jamie pushes at his food, oblivious to the non-verbal communication Graham and I are currently sharing from across the table.

"So Graham, what are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"What's your major?" Jamie asks, peering up from his plate. "Music?"

"Uhh, no. Fine Art." Graham bites his lower lip. "Painting."

Jamie arches an eyebrow. "Oh, that's interesting."

"Why?"

"Well, Damon told me you were a talented musician, so I just assumed."

Jamie's attention returns to his food again, and Graham's eyes connect with mine, briefly, before looking away. There's a slight glow to his expression. "He did?"

"Yeah, well I mean," Jamie says, nodding toward me. "That's why Damon's mentoring you, isn't it?"

"I just figured that he did that with a lot of students," Graham says, and Jamie nearly spits out his food laughing.

"Damon?" Jamie says, pointing his fork at me with his mouth half-full. "I'm lucky if Damon spares a precious hour to go to the pub with me. If he's taking the time to mentor you, then it must mean that you're reasonably talented."

I see Graham blush from the other end of the table, his eyes flicking upward briefly to meet mine, then down again before pushing his food around his plate.

I clear my throat, set my napkin on the table, and rise from my seat. "Seconds?"

"No, but thanks." Jamie shakes his head, and Graham's hands automatically collapse into his lap, no longer content to fake eating.

"Here, let me help you clean up."

"No, no, it's alright," I insist and push Jamie back when he tries to turn on the sink.

Jamie glances at me, then Graham, then back at me again. "Well, I hate to dine and dash, but..."

The air is tense in the room, and I'm sure from his expression that Jamie is conscious of it. "I think I should let you two have your time. Thanks for dinner," he says, wrapping me in a tight hug.

I give Jamie a "sorry we can't talk" look while Graham isn't paying attention, and Jamie nods his head in understanding.

"It was nice meeting you, Graham," Jamie adds, shooting him a big grin. "Hopefully I'll see you again, and we can talk some more about comics."

Graham lifts his head from his lap, beaming. "Yeah, I'd like that."

I place a hand on the small of Jamie's back as we walk to the door, waiting until I know that we're far enough away that Graham is out of earshot.

"Graham's a nice kid," Jamie comments, and for once I can tell he's not flippant.

"Yeah. He is."

"He's a perfect match for you," Jamie adds, and I almost choke.

"What?" I say, hoping he will clarify.

"I'm teasing. I mean that you look happier around him. I can see it in your expression," Jamie smirks, poking at the corner of my mouth. "Not to concern you or anything, but if I squint, I can almost see the hint of a smile on your sad bastard mess of a face."

"Haha," I reply, unamused. "Very funny."

"Really. You do look a lot happier. Honestly," he says, poking my chest with his index finger. "I don't know what this kid's doing to you, but tell him to keep it up."

I cringe. "Right."

"And stop beating yourself up about things."

"Alright."

"I mean it," Jamie says, poking me in the shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," I say, edging Jamie closer to the door.

"Has he got a girlfriend?" Jamie probes and my blood immediately turns cold.

"I'm not sure," I say, trying to look nonchalant. "I don't believe so."

"That's good. Cause I'm telling you, Graham will want nothing to do with you once he gets one, so enjoy it now," Jamie warns, and I bite down hard on my tongue.

"Good night, Jamie," I hint, and finally getting the cue, Jamie grins at me and shuts the door behind him.

Graham is back on the couch by the time I turn around, and as I head back into the living room, I pause in the entryway, leaning up against the doorframe and observing him from afar. He's hunched over something in his lap, lost in concentration. It takes me a minute to realize what he's doing, and it's not until he shifts his arm out of the way that I can tell that he's drawing in a sketchbook.

He lifts his head as I enter, briefly acknowledging my presence. His hair falls forward over his eyes, and he reaches a hand up to sweep it out of his face before looking down again.

"He's nice," Graham mumbles, with his head still buried in his sketchbook. "I like him."

"I'm glad that you approve," I say, folding my arms.

"Are you going to kick me out now?" Graham asks, without looking at me.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's still pouring outside and I'm not a monster," I answer, unfolding my arms and walking toward him. I sit down on the opposite end of the couch. "At least not all of the time."

"You're not a monster," Graham says, his eyes still glued to the paper.

"How do you know that?"

I hear the grinding sound of him digging graphite into the paper. Graham sighs, lifting his arm up and rotating his sketchbook sideways. "Because I've read all about you."

"And what did you read about me?"

"I dunno. Lots of things."

"Like what?"

Graham stops scratching with his pencil, letting it fall against the paper with a soft thwack.

"Is Jamie your boyfriend?"

I laugh, covering my face with both hands, and Graham gives me a dirty look.

"Why on earth would you think that?"

"He kissed you," Graham says very matter-of-factly. "On the lips. And the way you were touching each other...a friend doesn't do that." Graham picks up his pencil again, burying his head in his sketchbook, and for the next few minutes, all I can hear is the sound of graphite scratching against the paper.

I force back a smile. "Jamie..." I start, then shake my head. "Jamie is not my boyfriend, no."

"Did he used to be?" Graham asks, and I can't help but be impressed by his thoroughness.

I laugh, rubbing my eyes. "No."

"Have you done it with him?"

I lob Graham an incredulous look, but he's still not looking at me. "What is this, twenty questions?" I joke, but Graham just shrugs his shoulders.

I sigh, running my hand over the stubble on my chin. "We tried. Once. We were both incredibly drunk. Too drunk."

"Tried?"

"He threw me off," I explain, and Graham finally looks up at me with a smirk on his face.

"Jamie's not that way."

"Clearly."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because no one in their right mind would throw you off," Graham says, staring down at his sketchbook and smirking. I feel my cheeks get red.

"I warn you, flattery will get you nowhere," I tease, and arching my neck back, look up at the ceiling, then at Graham.

Graham lets out a loud sigh. "Well, I might as well try."

"What are you drawing?"

"None of your business," Graham says very matter-of factly, before shooting me a sour look.

"Alright." I lean forward, lifting myself off the couch but Graham stops me. He leans back staring down at his lap as though he's debating with himself.

"Here," he finally says, handing me his sketchbook. "Just don't say anything shitty about it."

On the paper is a rough sketch of what appears to be me sitting at my desk in my classroom, deep in thought. Graham must have drawn this during class, I muse. My stomach twists looking at the way he's rendered me; caught amidst my books, imprisoned inside frenetic pencil lines. He's captured me with my mask off, unaware, absent and vulnerable.

"Is this me?" I say, looking up.

"If you can't tell, then no," Graham replies, looking offended. He moves to snatch the sketchbook back from me.

I hold it above my head so he can't reach it. "No," I grin. "I like it."

"Don't be a twat."

"No, I mean it. I do." I lower my gaze to his sketch again, holding the sides of it with both hands. "Could I have this?"

Graham purses his lips, glancing down at the sketchbook, then at me again. "Sure," he mumbles.

"Thanks, Gra."

Graham's head perks up. "What did you just call me?"

"Gra," I repeat. "That's your nickname, isn't it?"

Graham looks at me cautiously. "Yeah. Who told you that?"

I tilt my head to the side. "Alex."

Graham's eyes light up. "Oh. Right." He pauses. "Only he calls me that."

"Because he's your boyfriend?" I probe, and Graham immediately tenses up.

"He's not my boyfriend," Graham blurts out, then adds, "well, not really."

"I take it he's the person who got you in trouble though?" I tease, and Graham blushes.

"Yeah," Graham admits, lowering his chin. "All we did was mess around a little; it's not like it was..."

"Not like what?"

"You know."

"No, I don't."

"It's not like we had sex," Graham mumbles, wringing both of his hands, and suddenly I'm reminded of how young he is. He narrows his eyes at me. "That stuff's scary, you know?"

I study him for a quiet moment, unsure of what to say. "I suppose when I was your age it was scary. Yeah."

"What's it like?" He asks, and I force back a smile.

"What? Gay sex?"

Graham fidgets uncomfortably, and I realize I may have overestimated exactly how experienced he is. "Any sex."

I cover my face with my hands and smirk. "Isn't this something your parents should've—"

"My parents kicked me out for just kissing a boy."

"Fair point," I concede. "So is this going to be the talk with a capital T?” I joke, but Graham appears unamused. “I'm not trying to take the piss. I’m just surprised, is all.”

Graham looks at me, offended.

“About your inexperience, I mean. You’re a…handsome person, that’s all I’m trying to say. I just figured that it would have happened already for you.” I smile, feeling torn between responsibility and what I want to say. Graham's shoulders visibly relax, and a wave of relief washes over me.

“I mean, what do you want to know about it?” I ask, knowing already that I'm going to regret answering.

“Does it hurt?”

I look up at the ceiling, considering my next words carefully. “The first time?”

“Yeah.”

“Not always. It doesn’t have to.” I tilt my head back, putting my hand behind my head and looking at him sideways. “It depends on your partner. How careful they are, if they go slow, things like that.”

Graham wraps his finger around his hair, fidgeting. “Have you had lots of sex with...?”

“Men? A few,” I reply, and Graham gives me a puzzled look, so I decide to clarify. “I mean it would happen from time to time, but it wasn’t a regular thing for me, no. If that’s what you’re asking.”

"Oh."

"Look, with this Alex kid, if you're worried—"

"I don't want to talk about Alex anymore," Graham says solidly, and both of us fall into a tense silence.

"Ok," I nod. "What do you want to talk about then?"

"I want to talk about why you let me kiss you last night."

I bite down on the inside of my mouth, hard enough to draw blood. "I don't think that's an appropriate conversation for us to be having."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm an adult, and you're a—"

"I'm not a child," Graham retorts, looking wounded. I frown. "Stop calling me that. I'm eighteen, I'm an adult, and you kissed me—"

"I wasn't in my right mind. I was drunk," I interrupt. "End of story."

Graham leans back into the couch, studying me, and the way his eyes move over me is starting to make me feel anxious. "I felt you last night," he says, and I knit my brows together.

"What?"

"I felt you. You were hard. And you were drunk, which meant it must have been difficult for you to get there but you were."

"Graham, stop—"

"You want me."

I stare forward, straight in front of me. I'm afraid that if I move, I won't be able to keep face, so I decide that it's best not to look at Graham while I say the next few words.

"That's not what I said."

"But I love you."

I close my eyes and bit down on my tongue even harder, and my entire mouth tastes like iron. I'm still terrified of him. Even now.

"You're not old enough to know what that—" I begin, and choke, swallowing the rest of my words. I sense Graham shifting on the couch, but I'm too afraid to open my eyes. I can't cry in front of him.

Graham's lips are on mine, dry and warm and I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to acknowledge what's happening. My first impulse is to push him off, but selfishly, I do not. His hand brushes my cheek, and then he cups my head with both hands. He pulls me in again, too hard this time, trying to figure out what's right. But soon the kiss melts into something softer, and slower that draws me in. Graham flattens himself against me, and I feel the groan that goes through him as he notices what I've been trying to hide.

"I want you too," he whispers into my ear, almost whimpering, and it's enough to kill me.

I open my eyes to see reality staring back at me, full of want and beautiful. His lips are full and pink and soft to the touch and do not ask but rather demand, in naivete, to be kissed.

My fingers trail up the back of his neck, threading themselves into his hair as I press my other arm into the small of his back, pulling him closer. I make a sound I barely recognize as he pushes into me and I feel him for the first time. I kiss the contour of his neck, mouth closing over his Adam's apple, feeling his pulse race before drawing a line back to his lips, running my tongue across the channel in between them and biting down. My eyes flick upward. A brief stop in paradise, that's it. That's all I wanted. Selfishly.

I pull back, and with gentle care, push him off me. He stares back at me, sorer than ever, confused, and frustrated. I know I've left him in a vulnerable place, just on the inside edge of a boundary where I've danced upon the line and left. And I'm not even drunk this time.

I'm unclear and confusing; I can tell from just the look in Graham's eyes that he thinks just as much. The hurt, the pain. The situation solicits that I say something to justify my actions; I know this. And the words are on the tip of my tongue, but I just don't know how to say them.

How do I explain to him that people can't always get what they want, but sometimes they like to pretend that they do?

How do I explain to him that his childishness isn't folly; it's the inability to understand what to be afraid of and what to dread? That is what childhood is, isn't it? The expansion of what is great and good and innocent stymied by the weight of adulthood. What I would do to breathe that rarefied air again. To love without having been hurt, as he does.

Can you blame me for wanting to know what that felt like again? I'm sure you can. In fact, I know you will. But trust me when I tell you this—even the worst of us, even the Devil himself dreams of heaven, at times.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**

To be continued.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you for the kind comments and kudos on the last chapter. <3 I wrote this chapter quite quickly so I apologize for any mistakes. Also, yes I made a Gorillaz reference as the name of a place because I'm cheesy like that. ;) As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy. xx

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don't sleep the rest of that evening. I suppose that goes with saying. Not that I sleep well at all these days—but sober, even less so. The entire night I lay in my bed with my ear turned toward the door, waiting to hear the sound of the front door unlock and the knob turn, but it never comes.

As soon as my alarm clock reads four thirty a.m., I concede, peel out of bed and step into the shower. I'm ready by six, and to my relief, Graham's still asleep; there's nothing but darkness and silence behind his door. I leave a spare key in the bowl on the counter and a note for him to lock up after he leaves.

I stop off at the cafe on my way to the campus, and order a red-eye, not my thing usually but today the lack of sleep necessitates it. If I could inject the caffeine into my veins to feel it faster, I would.

During my lunch period, I force half a sandwich down, feeling nauseous, then go outside for a smoke break. I lean against the outside of the building, fag in hand, and before I've even wrapped my lips around it someone says, "Hey," behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Graham is standing behind me, looking small underneath the weight of his backpack, hands gripping both straps on either shoulder as though he's holding on for dear life.

"You left early this morning," he remarks, and the way he says it makes me feel like shit. I stand up from the wall, take a long drag from my cigarette, and muster a tired smile. I'm not feeling up for exchanging words today, though I'm certain Graham doesn't share the same sentiment.

"I missed you," Graham adds as if thinks his first statement wasn't obvious enough to invoke a response from me. I lift my gaze from the ground, fixating my eyes on him and letting my cigarette hand fall to my side. I've half a mind to press the lit end into my skin right now.

"Are you giving me the silent treatment?"

I laugh, looking down at my feet. I shake my head, running my tongue across my lower lip and when I look up again, Graham is markedly pinker. "No."

"Then why aren't you talking to me?"

"I just did," I return coolly, and Graham stares at me like I've just said the worst thing in the world.

"Alex and I are going to the club tonight," he says, reaching up a hand to mess with his hair. "You should come with us."

"Not my thing, but thanks," I reply, dropping my cigarette to the ground and snuffing it out with my shoe. When I glance up again, Graham has turned from pink to bright red.

"You know, I don't understand what your problem is," Graham spits. "One minute you're all over me like you want to be with me, and the next minute you're just a miserable arsehole—"

My eyes widen. "Jesus Christ," I hiss, looking over my shoulder. "Keep your voice down. Are you trying to get me fired?

"Maybe," he says, and I can’t tell if he's joking.

"That isn’t funny."

"Wasn't meant to be," he mumbles. "We'll be at the Strobelite," he says. "If you change your mind."

"Noted." My gaze lowers, settling on his chest. "Are those my clothes that you're wearing?"

Graham flushes an even deeper shade of pink. "Yeah. All my clothes are dirty. I had nothing left to wear, ok?"

"It's alright. The clothes suit you." I smile, and given the strained and confused look on Graham's face I know I must only contributing to his frustrations.

"Thanks," he says, swallowing. "Anyway, let me know if you change your mind," he says. “Even if it’s not your thing.”

“No promises,” I reply, but then pausing add, “we’ll see” and Graham smiles back at me.

**

As soon as I get home, the first thing I do is ring Jamie. He's going out with some mates tonight for drinks and tells me that I'm welcome to come along. Reluctantly, I take him up on his offer and head into the shower for a quick second wash and a shave. I stand in front of the mirror, buttoning up my favorite pressed dress shirt, the blue one that's tailored and fits me well.

My thoughts drift, and once again Graham is weighing in the back of my mind. Graham and Alex. Graham and the club. I imagine him getting plastered with his mates, and then going home with strangers. It's not a pleasant thought; not one I want to think about anyway.

I push the thought away, choosing to think instead about bar tonight and the possibility of meeting someone. Yeah, that would be good. Someone of appropriate age, my age. Nothing serious, of course. Just a distraction to get my mind off the alternative.

The pub is already overcrowded when I arrive, and as soon as I cross the threshold, I realize I'm overdressed. In here, my blazer and dress shirt read halfway between the club and a speed date, and it's not a flattering look at all. The place isn't a dive bar, on the contrary, it's hip and trendy, but even still, I feel like an arsehole wearing a starched shirt. The look on Jamie's face when he sees me walk in confirms just about as much.

"Going on a date tonight?" He jeers, and I scowl at him. He pats me on the shoulder. "It's alright. You clean up well. You've got that whole hip dad thing going on."

"Oh right, that's what I was going for."

"Oh, you know what?" Jamie arches an eyebrow and circles his arm around my back. "I've got a special lady friend here who I'm sure would be keen on your dad ensemble."

I groan. "Yeah, I seem to recall how well your match-making went last time."

Jamie looks at me, visibly offended. "How was I supposed to know she was only into women?"

"Yeah, nothing like a spot of rejection to mend the broken heart."

"Well, beautiful boy—you can't have them all, now can you?"

"I don't think I'll need any of your help tonight, but thanks," I say.

"Right. Because we both know you could wear a bucket hat and a paper bag and you'd still look stunning," Jamie jokes, holding a hand to his head and swooning.

"Oh, fuck off."

Jamie rolls his eyes. "Alright, go get yourself a drink then One Direction," he says, slapping me on the back. He shoves a wad of bills into my hand. "And order me a lager. I'll meet you back at the table."

I make my way toward the front of the pub, squeezing myself into the only open space in front of the bar. I lean forward, lifting my hand to flag the bartender, and as I do, I recognize a familiar face just a few seats down from where I am. Justine is sitting just shy of twenty feet away, lost in passionate conversation with one of her girlfriends. Her friend's eyes flick upward, catching mine. I sink backward, trying to obscure myself from view. Fuck.

"Oy, I recognize you,” the older man sitting next to me announces, and now I’m convinced that I’ve just walked into the middle of a nightmare.

"You're Damon Albarn," he bellows, and my anxiety kicks into overdrive. I lower my chin, trying to hide my face.

"I think you've mistaken me for someone else," I reply, tapping my fingers on top of the bar. My fight-or-flight instinct is telling me to abandon ship and why I do not—like an idiot—is beyond me.

"No, I'd know that rich prick when I saw him with my own eyes. You're Damon Albarn alright."

I give him a weary look. "Hey listen, mate, I'm just trying to get a drink."

The man raises his glass above everyone's heads and drunkenly shouts, "Take a look everyone! It's that gob-shite cunt from Seymour."

In unison, every patron within a thirty-foot radius cranes their neck to stare at me. I wish more than anything that I could disappear right now. Justine gives me a double-take, and though her expression isn't malicious, her embarrassment is evident. Just as quickly as she spots me, she turns away again, hiding behind her glass while her friend gives me the evil eye. Yeah. This is a nightmare.

Without a word, I abandon my drink order and make a beeline for the exit. The weight of several pairs of eyes are on me as I squeeze my way through the dense sea of people to get to the exit. I hear another stranger call me a cunt from behind my back just as soon as my back has turned. I clench and unclench my jaw. This isn't the first time something like this has happened. By all rights, I should be used to it by now, the lack of privacy and the low-hanging insults that come with fame—even faded fame now as it is—but I’m not.

My entire body feels like an exposed nerve as I exit onto the sidewalk and almost knock into two passerbys. My cell phone vibrates, and it’s Jamie messaging me. _Take all the time you need,_ his text reads, which tells me that he must have caught wind of what had happened back at the bar.

I snap my phone shut, then shove both hands into my pockets as I walk down the sidewalk with my head low. I consider hailing a cab, but decide against it. I know that giving into my social neuroses will only start another row with Jamie if I'm not careful.

My thoughts drift to Justine, and the look on her face when she saw me—the second-hand embarrassment, the shame. I stop myself. I'm too sober to go down that rabbit hole tonight.

A cab drives past with a lit-up advert for some club, and my thoughts turn to the one thing I don't want to think about, even more than Justine. No. I shake my head. If I meet up with Graham now, I'm just admitting to my weakness.

Besides, he’s out with Alex, and Alex… my stomach turns, and I forcibly push the nauseous visual of Alex necking Graham out of my mind. Another cab pulls over to the side of the road, allowing its patrons out onto the sidewalk and the driver eyes me. This is going to cause a row with Jamie, and I know it, but I need something to distract me from the thought of Justine right now. Frowning, I swing my blazer over my shoulder and run to catch the taxi.

  
**

By the time the cab arrives at the club, I'm already having second and third thoughts about the whole thing, beyond the obvious ones. Firstly, because I'm painfully sober; secondly because I can’t see anyone who looks over the age of thirty standing in front of the club.

I step out of the cab and onto the curb with sunglasses securely in place. I'm conscious of the fact I look like a twat wearing them, but after tonight’s events, I'd rather be safe than sorry.

The club is packed, uncomfortably so, and it takes me a good minute to find my bearings. I focus on the staircase to the second level, hoping that the elevated view will give me a better chance of finding Graham and Alex. Squeezing my way through the mass, I catch my reflection in one of the mirrors and give myself pause to realize how ridiculous I’m being. Here I am, a middle-aged man in a club coming to spy on an 18-year-old and his friend; if that’s not the definition of a budding sexual predator than I don’t know what is.

As I reach the second floor, I make a beeline for the bathroom to spot check my appearance. My outfit is more in place here than it was back at the bar, but even so, I’d rather not look like shit if I happen to run into Graham.

My hand reaches up to fuss with my hair in the mirror. I tuck my shirt in, stand tall and turn my head from side to side. Without scruff, I read five years younger. Usually, I hate how I look clean-shaven, but I’m grateful for it tonight.

There I go again, I muse. Another rabbit hole I needn't go down. He’s a kid. Half your age. Remember that.

The door to the bathroom kicks open, and I see Alex stumble his way in, grinning like a madman. His voice is an entire decibel higher than it needs to be. Graham is in tow, clinging to Alex's shoulders, smiling wide, and visibly drunk and happy in his own little world.

Graham leans in far too close, just a hair inch away from Alex's mouth. "Don't be a wanker and leave without me," he threatens, before sauntering off to the very last stall at the end of the row. Neither of them has spotted me yet, and selfishly, I'd like to keep it that way for a little while longer. There's no harm in observing how Alex acts around him, I justify. Especially since Graham wouldn’t give me a clear answer.

I step off to the side, hiding behind the metal wall of one of the stalls next to the sinks and tilting my head to overhear their conversation. Graham is griping about something I can't make out, and then a few seconds later I hear Alex shouting over the stalls.

"Oy, Graham? You're not throwing those up are you?" He raps his knuckles against the door, but there's no answer. "Those pills were expensive, mate." There's the sound of Alex jumping, and then I see him with both of hands hooked over the top of the stall door and pulling himself up to look over. "Hey!"

"What the fuck, Alex?" Graham shouts, sounding both taken off guard and irritated.

"Jesus. Are you looking at your phone again?"

"I just wanted to see if he texted me."

"Christ," Alex swears, and I imagine him rolling his eyes. "You need to get over that arsehole. What did I tell you earlier? He's not coming tonight."

"He likes me," Graham says. "He's going to come."

"Gra, you need to stop getting your hopes up about people. That's why you're so bloody miserable all the time.” Alex says, clicking his tongue. “You're like a walking, talking Morrissey song. Now come on," Alex says, letting go of the stall door. "Let's go have some fun, already."

I slip my way out of the restroom before either Alex or Graham see me, and find a spot near the back wall where I can observe from afar. Self-consciousness hits me like a wave. I've reached true creep status now.

Alex exits the bathroom, with Graham soon behind him. Graham jumps up on Alex’s shoulders, one of his hands missing the mark and consequently almost falls on his ass. Alex grins, gives him a big kiss and ruffles his hair. "You're drunk," he mouths, and Graham bowls over in laughter. I bite down on my tongue. I need a drink.

I turn to head toward the bar, and a short, blonde kid of about my same stature and build knocks into me. He gives me a mumbled apology before turning around and giving me a double-take.

“Nice arse, daddy,” he says, grinning and giving me a sultry once-over. I knit my brows together and glare back at him.

"What'd you call me?" I say.

He turns away, whispering something into his friend's ear, and giggling. Right. Make that two drinks.

Halfway to the bar, I spot Graham and Alex again, dancing with two other blokes, one with blonde hair and the other red. Alex has his hands full by the looks of it, but Graham is looking a bit woozy. He keeps falling over onto his dance partner, laughing, and it’s not long before the lad slides his arm around Graham’s back and pulls his hips forward. Meanwhile, his other hand snakes down to touch Graham's arse, squeezing tightly, and my stomach turns over for the third or fourth time tonight.

Graham doesn’t seem care though because he keeps dancing. In fact, it’s not until the blonde bloke kisses him and pins him back against the railing that Graham finally becomes aware that his boundaries are being crossed. The look on Graham's face is confused at best. He looks uncomfortable, on top of being irritated, and when the boy makes a move to kiss him again, he scrunches up his nose and tries to push him off. But the twat won’t budge. Despite Graham’s evident discomfort, the lad's grinning, and as soon as the last song transitions into a new one, he rolls his hips forward, and I see all the color drain from Graham’s face.

I can’t hear Graham from here, but I can read his lips. He’s calling for Alex, but Alex has disappeared.

Graham pushes the blonde kid off again, struggling, and it's Graham's second attempt at rejecting him that finally pushes the lad off the edge. He’s visibly wounded now, red-faced and calling Graham a fucking twat, and when he leans forward to shove Graham back against the railing, that's when I finally snap.

I set my drink down, and push my way past the crowd to get over to them. Graham turns, looking surprised to see me—no doubt—but even more surprised to see me livid.

I place my hand on the back of the blonde bloke’s shoulder, and he turns to scowl at me.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Up close, the lad's an even skinnier twat than I thought he was. I'm a few inches taller than him, and broader too.

“I want you to get your hands off him,” I say, offering him a tight smile.

The kid gives me a scathing once over. “What are you then, his fucking dad?”

I bunch the collar of the boy’s shirt into my fist, tugging him forward with just enough roughness for him to know that I'm serious. His eyes widen, and I can see a glimpse of fear in his eyes. I'm stronger than him, and he knows it.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact,” I jeer, and the boy looks at me, then Graham, back to me again. His face screws up into disgust.

“You’ve got some fucked up issues, mate,” he says, looking at Graham. "Really."

I release my hold on him, and muttering underneath his breath; he calls me a cunt and gives me the universal sign to fuck off before walking away.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Graham says in a tiny voice behind me, and as I turn around to face him. He smiles at me, and all at once my anger dissipates.

“Yeah well,” I say, wiping the grin off my face. “Plans changed.”

Graham bites down on his lower lip and grins even wider. He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. My face turns hot.

“People are staring,” I say, but the glow in Graham’s eyes tells me that doesn’t matter to him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, puffing his chest forward. “I had it under control.”

“That's not what it looked like to me,” I counter.

“What, were you jealous?” Graham accuses, looking coy.

I shake my head. “I didn’t say that,” I deny, gluing my hands to my sides. Even sober, I don’t trust myself right now.

Graham leans in close enough so that his lips are almost touching my ear. “You didn’t have to,” he says, then smirks.

I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and lean into his ear. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I whisper, but I'm smiling. I push him away from me, creating some distance, and three seconds later I feel his hand close around my wrist. True Faith begins playing over the speakers, and I see Graham’s eyes light up.

Alex appears out of nowhere, yelling, and almost jumps on top of Graham. He squeezes his shoulders. “New Order,” he shouts, grinning madly. “Come on Gra. We gotta dance!”

Alex gives me a cursory look, the kind that's both acknowledging but cautious at the same time. “Nice of you to join us, Dad,” he quips, winking. “I’ll bring him home safe and sound, I promise.”

My face flushes even redder. Graham looks back at me, on the verge of laughing, and takes Alex’s hand. “I’ll be back,” he says and squeezes my hand.

As they turn their backs to me, I notice that Graham is all smiles and whispering into Alex’s ear something I can’t hear. Alex gives a quick glance back at me, then looks at Graham and nods. It’s safe to say I’m feeling enough out of place to justify at least two vodka sodas, and so five minutes later I find myself at the bar, finally placated, and stirring my drink with a plastic stick.

“Oy Damon,” someone says from behind me, and Alex taps me on the shoulder. He smoothes his fringe back out of his face like some bird and leans back against the bar. Alex is like a walking magazine ad—all limbs and angles with a beautiful face attached; I resent the hell out of him, and I’m confident he knows it. I spare him the smallest smile of acknowledgment I can muster before turning my attention back to my drink.

“I’m surprised that you made it tonight,” Alex remarks, and strangely, his tone sounds more friendly than antagonistic.

“Me too,” I agree, pressing my drink to my lips and staring forward into space.

“Graham likes you quite a lot,” Alex continues, and now I wish that we’d just stuck to awkward small talk.

I set my drink down, then pause, giving him my full attention. “Does he?” I say, and Alex appears unsatisfied by my reaction.

“No, I just came over to blow smoke up your arse," he says, before grabbing my drink out of my hand. "Graham won't shut up about you. It's rather annoying, actually," Alex adds, taking a sip of my drink. Now I really do hate him.

I press my fingers to both temples.

"He looks up to you."

I tilt my head, wetting my dry lips, and give Alex a long stare. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“It’s just an observation.”

I arch an eyebrow. I'm anxious to change the topic of conversation. “Right, well. Thanks for the consideration.” I grab my glass back out of Alex’s hand and take a sip.

As soon as my hand lowers, Alex places his hand over my wrist. I’ve half a mind to slap him for that.

He narrows his eyes. “Look,” he says, and I'm finding the amount of strength he’s holding my hand down with unsettling. “Graham’s my best friend in the whole wide world. Now, I know you're his teacher, and you seem like you’re harmless bloke but—”

“Let me guess,” I interrupt, arching an eyebrow. “Keep my hands off because he’s your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Don’t hurt him,” Alex threatens, and I can tell he's serious. “Otherwise I’ll knock your bloody teeth out.”

“Duly noted,” I reply, finishing the rest of my drink. I lift myself up off the bar. “Is that all?”

“That’s all,” Alex says, looking just as cheerful as when he first walked over. His face lights up. “Oh, and before I forget,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “Here. This is for you and Gra. For the road.” He grabs my wrist, turns my hand over, and three small colored tablets in my palm.

I furrow my brow. “What’s this?”

“Molly.”

“What?”

Alex stares at me, and I stare back at him, expressionless. I shake my head.

“E’s, you know?”

“Oh,” I say, my eyes lighting up. “Right.”

Alex shakes his head, jeering. “Jesus, how old are you?”

I look down at the pills in my hand. “Thanks, but I don’t do this stuff anymore—”

“Trust me,” Alex interrupts, leaning into my ear. He takes my hand into his and closes it, patting the top of my fist. “You’ll thank me later.”

  
**

As soon as Alex disappears again, my phone vibrates. There's a text from Jamie asking where I am, and then a second, sent thirty minutes later, that's much more passive-aggressive: _not traveling down memory lane I hope?_  I frown.

 _No, not Justine._ I type. _But I’m incapacitated._ I hit send.

My phone vibrates again with a reply from Jamie and an upside down smiley face: _Congrats. Don’t forget to use a rubber, sweetie_

I smirk. _Thanks, mum._  I type back.

I stare down at the bright screen, my fingers hesitating over the keys. I have a burning question that I want to ask, but I’m not sure if I should. I bite down on my tongue. _Did you see Justine?_ I type, then changing my mind at the last minute, hit backspace.

My phone vibrates again, and it’s Graham this time. _I'm by the bar on the first floor_

I snap my phone shut and make my way down the stairs through a mass of sweaty bodies and unpleasant smells. I already feel disgusting; I’d like nothing more than to take a shower right now. I brush my hand over my jeans pocket, thinking about the pills Alex gave me.

Graham’s glowing by the time I get to him. He’s leaning up against the bar, barely able to stand, and for half a second I almost want to scold him, but I catch myself. As soon as he makes eye contact, he beams at me, and it gives me that same ten-foot-tall feeling from a few weeks ago.

He jumps up, gripping me by both shoulders. Graham's markedly more ambitious this time, almost manic. He kisses me on the lips, drunkenly, but I find it sweet. He tastes like cranberry vodka, and I wonder how anyone can stomach that. He grabs me by the wrist, giving me a mischievous grin.

“Let’s go home,” he announces, as if I can’t hear, and grins into my ear.

  
**

We hail a cab, and no more than two seconds after the door’s been shut, Graham’s inching his right hand toward mine on the back seat, trying to look nonchalant and failing. I look at him out of the corner of my eye and almost laugh. He’s drunk enough to be forward, but still shy enough to draw the whole thing out, which I find endearing. By the time our fingertips are about an inch away, I close the rest of the distance to him, slipping my hand into his and squeezing it tightly. Neither of us looks at each other, both of us pretending to stare out the window to save face, but Graham's hand is warm and inviting, and two seconds later I feel him squeeze back.

Besides the first kiss, it's our first mutual moment of flirtation, holding hands in silence. It's the sort of physical connection held long enough to hold emotional weight. And while part of me interprets Graham's gesture of holding hands with me incredibly childish, I also find it adorable. There's innocence to it; a naïveté that is markedly absent in the adult world of one night stands, where now a first kiss is usually nothing more than a means to an end. I’d be lying if I said that it didn't make me smile to hold Graham's hand, as juvenile as that sounds. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that he makes me feel better, in a disgustingly happy, intoxicating sort of way. The type of feeling I’ve not had in a long time. Yeah, you read that right. Me, the sad bastard, happy.

I know, I make myself nauseous too.

 

 

 

 

 

**

To be continued.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get a lot of time to write this week, but I wanted to put something up before the end of the weekend, hence why this chapter is a little shorter. I'm hoping to have some more time this week to flesh out the next chapter and make sure it's still in character because it will be a relatively big turning point for these two. That aside, there's a lot of fluff in this chapter, so I hope you enjoy! I apologize for any mistakes, there's probably a few. Thank you again for following along, and for your comments and kudos! xx

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the time I’ve put my key in the lock and opened the door to my apartment Graham’s tongue is down my throat and saying that this whole situation has gotten out of hand rather quickly would be an understatement at best.

He’s drunk and beautiful, and I’m allowing my mostly sober self to be indulgent for a fleeting moment, despite knowing that we’re breaking cardinal rules. I know this, he knows this, my brain knows this, but my mouth can’t be bothered. The door has barely shut before he pushes me up against the wall, sloppy, but passionate, and he’s looking at me through his lashes in that hormonally needy teenager way and— _fuck._

Graham’s mouth moves from my lips to my neck, and I’m finding out that he’s a much better kisser than I gave him credit for initially. As soon as he sinks his teeth into the side of my neck, I feel an electric jolt all the way down from my head to my groin. And if I was modestly half-hard a minute ago, it’s safe to say that’s no longer the case. I’m confident he knows this too, because he reaches his hand down to press between my legs, and an unfamiliar and animalistic sound escapes my throat.

Directing Graham by his hips, I move us toward the bedroom. He still has his hands between my legs like his life depends on it, and halfway there I hear him gasp into my ear and giggle, “Jesus, how big are you?”

By now, I am lost to sober account-keeping, and I’m asking myself what if, what if, what if. What if for a second I closed my eyes and forgot the age difference, turned my head away from the moral platitudes. He said that he loves me, remember? A kid who doesn’t know what love is, whose frontal lobe hasn’t even finished developing, who looks at me like I’m some idol, has willingly placed his heart in the Devil’s hands. I could have him right now if I wanted to. I could pull him into bed and let him do everything to me, show him the best fucking night of his life, the sort of experience that will haunt him in adulthood because I will be the first wolf in sheep’s clothing to have used him and left him.

Graham grins into my ear, hiccupy and drunk. “I like you a lot,” he says.

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” I smile and tuck a piece of hair behind his ear. His lips are beautiful—full, pink and bowing underneath sleepy eyes. Innocent. I kiss him again, then move swiftly down to his neck, and a small moan escapes his throat.

“I want my first time to be with you,” he mumbles, and it’s the verbal equivalent of splashing cold water on my face. My logic, previously on vacation, kicks back into gear.

I pull back, studying him with suspicious eyes. “Right. How drunk are you?”

He hiccups. “I’ve only had one drink. I’m not even drunk,” he answers, and then taking one step forward stumbles into me.

“Uh-huh.”

"It's alright, I trust you,” Graham says, pressing his hips into my thigh. I'm not even drunk and my head's spinning. He's coy, cheeks flushed and lips bright red now. My thumb brushes against his cheekbone. He’s beautiful, and I want him. All the worst parts of me do.

I lean forward and kiss him, drawing it out enough that my tongue slips between his lips and I feel somewhat satiated. He shivers underneath my hands. I pull back. “You need to sleep,” I say.

“No,” he says, rejection evident on his face. He circles his arms around me. “I want to—”

I press a finger to his lips. “I know what you want to do. But you need to sleep.”

He furrows his brow and gives me a look of frustration. “Why? Do you not like me?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then why won’t you sleep with me?”

“Because you’re intoxicated.”

“I am not intoxicated,” Graham pouts, slurring his syllables.

“You need to rest,” I say, kissing his forehead. He looks back at me dejected. I leave the room, then return a couple of minutes later with two aspirin and a large glass of water.

“Here,” I hand the glass to him, and he throws his head back, and downs both pills. “Drink all of it,” I add, and looking annoyed, he obliges.

“You’re acting like my dad or something,” Graham says.

“Well I am your dad right now, sort of,” I reply, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. There’s an expression of nausea on Graham’s face that mirrors my own. “Sorry,” I say. “That came out wrong.”

“Yeah, it did.”

I pause, hesitating in the doorway. I break eye contact, feeling too awkward to stare at anything but the ground. “Well, then. Get some rest.”

“Wait, hold on,” Graham says, and I’m feeling nauseous again. “Would you—”

“What?” I interrupt. I'm so anxious that every single muscle in my body feels tense.

“Will you sleep with me?” Graham says, and I take a deep breath.

“Graham—”

“What I mean is, will you stay with me in the same bed? So I’m not alone.” He chews on his upper lip. “I don’t want sleep alone. It’s eerie and quiet in this room.”

My shoulders relax an inch. “Gra, I don’t know if that’s—”

“Don’t say it’s not appropriate,” Graham interrupts, and his face is paler than it was a minute ago. “You just spent the last five minutes snogging me so don’t talk to be about being appropriate after all that.”

“—A good idea, was what I was about to say.” I finish, and he looks surprised by my change of wording. I rub my chin, then sigh. “Alright. That’s fair.”

Graham’s face lights up like the sun.

“But that’s all it’ll be,” I reiterate, before walking back to my bedroom. Graham quickly follows behind me, looking star struck.

“I know.”

With my back to him, I unbuckle my trousers and pull them down. I can feel his eyes on me. I move to take off my shirt but stop, hesitating. I’ll play it safe tonight, I think, and leave my shirt on. I turn and see Graham lifting his shirt in the same motion but pausing as he reads my face. He purses his lips together, nervy, and drops his hands to his sides. Leaving his shirt on, he drops his trousers, and it takes every bit of willpower left in me not to look.

I slip underneath the covers and turning onto my back admire Graham as he walks toward the bed. He’s all at once delicate and intimidating. When he stands up straight, the broadness of his shoulders is emphasized above his small waist, and it reminds me again of how tall he is. He slips underneath the sheets, mattress sinking as he does, and I’m immediately conscious of the warmth of his body next to mine. It’s painful. I want nothing more than to reach out and pull him into my arms, but I stop myself. I turn off the bedside lamp, lay back on the pillow, and stare up at the dark ceiling.

A few quiet minutes pass and the only sound I hear is his breathing, in unison with mine. This was a bad idea, I think, but I suppose that goes without saying. Feeling uncomfortable, I turn over to lay on my side so that I’m facing away from him, staring at the wall. About thirty seconds later I hear Graham shift in the bed, and a warm hand touches my back. I stop breathing. His arm snakes its way over my side, circling to my stomach. I’m tense at first, but after a few seconds I relax, shifting again to lay on my back. My hand slips underneath Graham’s side, pulling him in so that his head rests just underneath my chin. His breath is soft and warm against my skin. He moves his right hand to rest atop my chest, and in the darkness, I observe it raising and lowering with each breath I take. Letting out a deep sigh, he nuzzles himself even more into my shoulder, and almost instinctively I turn my neck to kiss the top of his head.

He’s sweet, I muse. That’s the problem. Looks are one thing. Emotional attraction, another. But sweet, sweet is devastating. Sweet is what gets underneath my skin; sweet is what gives me pause. The fact that upon rejection Graham still just wants to sleep next to me, to be held, not to be alone, to be looked after. He regards me with such adoration, and it kills me because I’m aware of the truth and he is not. I know of the ugliness inside me, that’s hidden from him, that he can not see. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve him.

I try to tell myself that this is different, that I’m not the same person, and that sentiment is the only thing that holds me through the rest of the night so I can sleep.  
  
**  
  
The blinds have been marking time all morning, rotating, tracking the sun’s curves over the white bed sheets, neon white, and black stripes drawn over the sleeping body of the young boy. London’s sky is wholly blue and still, suspicious. His arms are empty, and he’s restless, at intervals shifting slightly to move onto his back or stomach.

He’s warm, loose and soft, skin glistening under the heat of the sun. His eyes when he wakes are two delicate, sleepy arches over deep pools of black, the sort that gives you calm.

As I slip out from underneath him, the phrases come back to my memory, and I repeat them over and over to myself. _The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history._

The warm and savory smell of eggs fills the entire apartment. The electric kettle makes a pleasant bubbling sound from the other side of the kitchen. There's coffee brewing as well as tea. By the time the eggs have finished, Graham is still asleep, so I divvy out the portions with a side of buttered toast, wipe the pan clean, and wander back into the bedroom.

Graham stirs at the sound of me entering, blinking open his eyes, and squinting up at me. He grimaces at the bright light filtering in through the window and groans.

“Hungover, are we?” I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Graham’s eyes rest on the plate of eggs and toast.

“Did you—”

“A wise old man once told me that eggs are good for hangovers,” I interrupt.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And what old man was that?”

“Me,” I reply, smirking, and Graham cracks a big smile.

Feeling self-conscious, I wipe the grin off my face. “There’s tea as well,” I add, lifting myself up off the bed and placing the dish and cup on the bedside table.

Graham grabs me by the wrist. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Come here,” he says, pulling me forward enough that I have to lean down. He kisses me on the lips, sweetly, and my cheeks sting.

“Are you blushing?” He accuses, laughing.

“M’not.”

“Yeah, you are.” Graham counters and I smile slightly. His eyes study me for a long moment. “What happened last night?”

I frown. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember leaving the club, and I sort of remember getting back here…” He frowns. “Did we do—”

“No,” I reply abruptly.

Graham gives me a disappointed look. “Oh.”

“You fell asleep,” I clarify, and his face lightens up a bit. He lifts his hand up, chewing on his nails.

“Can I ask you a favor?” He says.

“Shoot.”

“Would you—” he starts, then blushes. “Would you get back in bed for just a minute?”

“Only one minute?”

“Yeah.”

I smile and ruffle his hair. I hop over him, climbing underneath the sheets. I lift my arm up, looking at my wristwatch. “Alright, you’ve got fifty-five seconds. I’m keeping track.”

Graham smirks, punching me in the side. “Hey, come on.”

“Fifty seconds now.”

“Stop,” Graham says. He cuddles up next to me, and I wrap my arm around him. He kisses me on the cheek.

“You gotta stop doing that,” I say.

“What?”

“Kissing me.”

Graham falls silent, and his eyes shift to my abdomen. He slides his arm over the top of my chest, testing the water. His hand drifts down, settling on my stomach.

I furrow my brow. “What are you doing?”

Giving me a devilish but coy look, he slips his hand down, even more, reaching between my legs and his fingers brush the front of my boxers, feeling me through the fabric. My morning state has passed by now, but there’s still enough there to make him blush bright red. “Just seeing if it was a dream or if it was real,” Graham mumbles.

I bite down on my tongue. I desperately want to push my hips forward up into his palm, but I force myself not to. Instead, I reach down, hold him by the wrist, and bring his hand up to kiss it. “You should eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

“I’ve never been with anyone before,” he says, and I feel all the blood drain from my face. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that...yet.”

Both of us fall silent, and Graham takes my wordlessness as a cue to clarify.

“But when I am ready, I want it to be with you.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you said that to me last night.”

“And?”

I say nothing, keeping a slight smile on my lips to hide the guilt I’m feeling internally. I kiss Graham on the forehead. “You should eat your breakfast.”

He looks at me as though he’s about to cry. “You don’t want me.”

My jaw hangs halfway open. “Graham—”

“It’s true. That’s why you don’t want to do anything. You don’t like me like how I like you. I’m just some little kid bothering you.”

“Gra—”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say it,” he rattles on, his eyes downcast.

“You’re not attracted to me, I understand. I’m not handsome like you.”

“Graham,” I say, louder this time, and finally I get his attention. “I’m attracted to you.”

He looks at me, then after a beat continues babbling on, casting his eyes away and down. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better. It’s alright —”

I frown. Circling my fingers around Graham's wrist, I pull his hand down between my legs. I’m all the way hard now, and the difference from a few minutes before is enough to make his eyes grow wide. I wrap my other hand around the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss and after a few seconds, pull back for air. Graham has stopped breathing.

“I'm not saying it to make you feel better,” I state. And when I remove my hand from Graham's wrist he starts breathing again. He looks pale.

I roll myself out of bed. “Your minute is up.” I smile, taking up his plate and cup. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Graham looks utterly betrayed, and I feel a tinge of guilt as I leave the bedroom. My judgment has been more wobbly than usual the past twenty-four hours, no doubt about that. I make a mental note to call his parents again today; I’ve already gone far enough with him to risk losing my job.

Graham appears in the kitchen a few minutes later, still looking pallid, but more resolved. Feet bare, he hurries across the cold floor and sits down at the kitchen table. I pour him a large glass of water and push it toward him.

“Drink,” I instruct, before stabbing my fork into my food. Graham looks up at me, timid. “You’re going to want to drink about four of those. Trust me," I say, then add, "Especially if Alex gave you e’s last night.”

I lift my coffee cup to my lips, take a sip, and when I set my cup back down again, Graham’s eyes are still on me.

He clears his throat, and grabbing the glass of water, slides it toward him. He picks up his fork and pretends to look interested in his food. “Thanks for breakfast,” he mumbles.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ve got work I’ve got to do today, so,” I say, looking up from my plate.

“You’ve still got the spare key, right?”

Graham nods, and I return my attention to my food.

“You should call your parents today.”

Graham drops his fork, and it lands with a loud clatter on his plate.  
I flick my eyes upward. “What’s wrong?”

“You are driving me mad,” he says, and I avert my gaze again. Spooning the last bit of egg into my mouth, I lift myself up off my chair and move to place my dish in the sink.

When I turn around again, Graham is still staring down at his food. Pivoting on my heel, I move to leave the kitchen. Halfway down the hallway, I hear the loud screech of a kitchen chair dragging across the linoleum and the sound of Graham’s bare feet crossing the kitchen. I don’t lift my head, assuming that he’s decided to run off in spite of my comment, which is why I’m surprised when I feel heavy and insistent hands on my waist, strong-arming me back into the bedroom.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some chapters flow easy and some chapters are like pulling teeth...up until last night I couldn't figure out how to get this one to a point I felt happy with. Thank you again for the encouraging comments, I've absolutely loved reading them. <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I loved writing it. Oh, these boys.

 

 

 

 

 

Let me explain. I’m aware of how this may look, believe me. I can explain. An eighteen-year old is pushing me into my bedroom against my will. No. That’s not it. Let me start over. An eighteen-year-old who is much, much stronger than he looks is shoving me into my bedroom door—roughly at that—and he’s made it very clear in the last ten seconds that I have no choice in the matter.

And yes don’t worry I’m aware of how all this sounds and can well imagine the judgments you’re forming from the way I’m characterizing sexual exploits with an almost-minor but if I’m to actually explain this to you in a factual and objective way then I have no choice but to reiterate what I said earlier, with emphasis, which is: _he came onto me first, ladies and gentleman of the jury._

But at this point, I'm didactic for the sake of being didactic because really in the last few minutes that’s the only anchor I can tie my monkey brain to keep from drowning in the morality of the situation. Yes, honesty, responsibility, being an adult. Yes, that’s right. I am an adult. An adult with a monkey brain that’s drawing all the blood from my head to between my legs.

Right. And that’s where Graham's hand is, between my legs, and some mysterious but overwhelmingly sensual energy is seeming to emanate from his very being, and I’m being helplessly drawn to it and now I’m leaning down and he’s whimpering into my ear, hot breath on my neck and it’s then that my human brain decides to step in and be an arsehole and remind me that he is a noun spelled as a six-letter-word that’s not been a part of my conversational vocabulary for over twenty years.

Virgin.

“Hold on,” I say, pushing him back by the shoulders. “Hold on for one fucking minute now.”

Graham looks irritated, but lovely as hell and he has a desperate look in his eyes that I’m having a hard time processing. He jumps into my arms again, one hundred percent hormonal. “I know you want this,” he says. “We both want this—”

“For God's sake,” I say, and he finally steps back, visibly wounded. “Let’s talk about this before you go all Lolita on me, Gra. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” I shake my head. “Let’s just—let's sit down and talk for a minute.”

Graham nods, cheeks blotched pink and eyes only slightly less interested in me than they were a few moments before. He sits down on the edge of the bed. I take a deep breath and readjust myself underneath my trousers.

Graham opens his mouth before I can get a word out. “If this is about you saying that this isn’t appropriate again, I swear—”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” I interrupt, and Graham’s face turns an even brighter shade of red. “I think that part’s obvious to both of us.”

“Okay..."

“Okay. So, this is a delicate situation, and…”

“Jesus, I don’t care that you’re a lot older. It doesn't matter to me. I’ve been telling you that again and again, and you don’t believe—”

“I know that it doesn't matter to you,” I say abruptly, and Graham falls silent. "But—"

Graham cuts me off with an indignant look. “But what? Do you think I’m too young to understand what's going on?”

“Graham.”

“What?”

"Look at me."

Graham turns to me, scowling.

“Let me talk for a second.”

Graham mutters something I can not hear and then crosses his arms.

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry,” I say, frowning.

Graham takes a deep breath. “Because you have no idea what this feels like, what it feels like to be me. You just—you tease me all the time, and it’s completely unfair.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”

Graham glares at me. “Fuck off, yeah it’s what I think.”

I laugh, and Graham gives me an even saltier look.

“Why are you laughing?”

I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. “Gra, do you think that I’m that naive?"

Graham furrows his brow. "Naive about what?"

"That I didn't have sex with older men when I was your age?”

Graham frowns, but he looks at me as though his entire perspective has changed.

“Yeah. You act surprised.” I lift both eyebrows and add, “and I was younger than you too.”

Graham lifts his hand up to chew on his thumb. “How young?”

“Sixteen,” I reply, and Graham falls quiet again, so I take his silence as my cue to continue. “My friends and I snuck into a club with fake IDs. That’s where I met him.”

“Was he your…?”

“First time? Yeah. My first time.”

Graham purses his lips, looking a bit more purple. “Was he good-looking?”

“Oh, very.”

“Oh.”

“And he had no idea how old I was, at least I didn’t think he did. He said I was an obnoxious twat with a stick up my arse and I told him just as much.”

Graham forces back a smile. “You?” He mutters. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Oh thanks,” I say, pushing Graham sideways.

“He had to have been in his late thirties, maybe forty. But he was beautiful as hell, had a head bigger than mine even, and he knew it. He must have seen me as some prize. Maybe he wanted to shake my ego, take me down a few notches, I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I was drunk beyond belief, believe me, absolutely trashed, and the second he pulled me into the men’s room, I couldn’t be bothered to have any moral reservations about age gaps or whatever.”

“So what happened?” Graham mumbles. “I mean, aside from having sex with someone beautiful.”

“Is that jealousy I’m hearing?” I jeer, softly jabbing Graham in his side.

“Ewww, no.”

“Anyway.” I take a deep breath, shifting on the bed. “He took me home the next day. Sweet of him, I thought at the time. As I said, it was my first experience. My mum had no idea. I had big purplish bruises all down my neck,” I say, pointing. I grin. “She thought I was out with girls.”

“And what happened?”

“I went back to the club the next weekend, and the weekend after that. Each time he acted as if he adored me, couldn’t wait to see me, couldn’t keep his hands off me. I was mad in love with him too. Every weekend that I could manage, I’d stay over at his house and lie to my mum, telling her I was sleeping over with a school mate. He was good too--taught me a few things.” I smirk.

“And then what?” Graham asks me with wide eyes.

“And then one weekend I went back to the club to meet him, and when I walked into the loo, I saw him fucking someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“Someone younger.”

“Jesus,” Graham breathes. “What an arsehole.”

“Yeah, exactly. What an arsehole.” I say and nod, and Graham looks at me as though he doesn’t understand so I clarify, “I don’t want to be that arsehole.”

Graham opens his mouth to speak, then stops.

“So now you understand,” I say. “That I get it.”

“Get it?”

“Where you’re coming from.”

Graham nods, then frowns. "Right."

“And why I want to treat this situation...delicately.”

Graham falls silent again, staring down at his shoes for a few seconds before responding. “Right. But you’re not an arsehole, and I love y—”

I place a finger to his lips. “Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Before you say that word to me again, think about this. Think about it for a while. Sleep on it. Then come back to me and tell me how you feel.”

“But I don’t need to sleep on it. I know what I want right now—”

“Graham, you’ve never been with anyone—”

“This isn’t just a sex thing,” Graham interrupts. “You’re not listening to me. You’re just trying to get rid of me. You don’t trust that I know what I want. You're acting like this because I said that I love you isn’t it? I just scared you off. I’m such an idiot. I should never have said that—you probably don’t even love me back—”

“Graham.”

“What?”

“Stop over-thinking.”

“But—”

“I slept with you last night.”

“But still—”

“In the same bed.”

Graham falls silent, and he looks back at me like a sore puppy.

“Why do you think we’re even having this conversation?”

Graham stares down at his toes. He sighs. “How long do you want me to think about it?”

“A week.”

“A whole week?”

“Three days then.”

“And then what?”

I chew on my lower lip. “Then maybe I’ll change my mind about this situation. Maybe.” I frown.

Graham swallows, then reaches out to touch the top of my hand. “Maybe?”

I frown, squeezing his hand. I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek.

“Wait, so what does that mean…?” Graham swallows, then reaches out to touch the top of my hand. “Are you saying that you want to be with me?”

I bite down on my tongue hard enough that I taste iron.

My chest feels heavy and tight. I can’t breathe. What I'm proposing here is impossible. It’ll never work, and I know it and yet here I am leading Graham on. The second anyone sees us together it's over. What’s wrong with me? I’ve completely lost it. I’ve lost the fucking plot.

"I'm not the sort of person you want to be with," I say. "Trust me."

Graham squeezes my hand tightly. He loves me, and I'm a fool to think otherwise. I can see it. It's written in permanent ink on his face at all times. I don't even need to wait three days to know.

“I can't promise you that I won’t have changed my mind about all of this by tomorrow,” I say, squeezing back, and as I leave the room, my eyes begin to burn.

 

**

 

I become a living ghost for the next three days, filtering in and out of the flat at odd times, finding places outside of it to loiter for long periods to avoid Graham. Coffee shops, parks. Out of sight, out of mind. On the occasions Graham does see me, he regards me with quiet caution, tiptoeing in and out of the apartment as though it’s a sort of holy place-eyes downcast and nervous.

It’s during these brief stretches of solace that I begin to dive head deep back into my work, not school work, but you know, real work. Pleasurable work. The kind I don’t often get to do these days.

It’s during one of these creative sprints that Graham wanders in to find me tied to my desk, headphones glued to my ears and head bobbing to a rhythm.

Graham is in my peripheral, edging toward me, eyes stolid and focused on my equipment. I remove my headphones and turn around.

“Hey.”

Graham shoots me an apprehensive glance. “Oh. Hey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering at all,” I say.

Graham brings his hand up to chew on his nails. He looks nice today; his clothes are a little more adult than normal—brogues and one of my striped tees.

“What are you working on?” He asks.

I sigh. “Oh, just an old project.”

“The animated one?”

I give him a funny look. “How’d you know?”

He forces back a smile. “I mean how many projects have you told me about?”

I roll my eyes and smile. “Right.”

“Can I have a listen?”

“Sure,” I say, picking up the headphones and handing them to him. I add, “It’s not done yet though.”

Graham puts them on, and after a nod, I rewind the track completely and press the play button.

A few seconds in, Graham furrows his brow. “Is this hip hop?” He yells, unable to hear himself.

I nod.

He scrunches up his nose. “You listen to hip hop?” He says, apparently surprised. I pretend to look offended.

I can hear the small sound of the bass line as Graham begins bobbing his head to the beat. “This is good.” He yells.

He begins to mouth the words.

“But not for long, the future is coming on….”

He takes the headphones off and beams at me. “Wow, that’s great.”

“I know,” I say, and it’s Graham’s turn to roll his eyes at me.

“I didn’t know you listened to hip hop.”

“I listen to, and write hip hop,” I correct him, and he rolls his eyes again. “Why, does that surprise you?”

“Well, I mean...yeah.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, looking mock offended.

“Cause you’re old.”

“Wow,” I say, and mock stab myself in the chest. “You got me that time, Coxon.”

He smiles. “Oh yeah?”

I muster a wounded look. “Yeah. Right in the soft stuff,” I reply, pounding a fist against my chest.

Graham smirks, and the way his eyes light up makes me want to kiss him right then and there.

“Did I hurt your feelings?” He says.

“Yeah, you did. I’ll have to walk to the cemetery and dig my own grave now. I’m so old that I’m embarrassed to show my face.”

Graham’s eyes are aglow now.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Because you’re cute.”

“Cute?” I scrunch my nose up in disgust. "What am I, a girl?"

“Handsome, then.”

My cheeks sting, and I cough, bringing my hand up to hide my face. “So you like the song?” I say, desperate to change the subject.

Graham’s eyes light up. “Yeah, it’s catchy. I like it a lot.”

I reach into one of my drawers and pull out a jewel case. “This was the design Jamie made for the record, with the final characters and all that.”

Graham’s eyes widen. “Woah,” he says, holding the CD in his hands. “Gorillaz? That’s what you called it?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, this is so cool,” he beams. “Which one is supposed to be you?”

“What?”

Graham’s eyes flick upward. “Didn’t Jamie have to draw you? Which one is the singer?”

I laugh. “Uhhh, lemme see,” I say, grabbing the CD from him and studying the cover. “I think I was supposed to be the one with...yeah, that one,” I say, pointing at one of the characters. “Stuart Pot. 2-D.”

“2-D?”

I hand the CD back to him. “Jamie made him an idiot. I suppose that was his way of taking the piss out of me,” I say, smirking.

“Is this your only copy?”

“Yeah, for now,” I say, then Graham gives me a funny look, so I clarify, “After we paid all the collaborators, we ran out of money. I got most of the record done, but when the label pulled the budget I didn’t see much of a point in finishing it...”

Graham frowns at me. “Well, that’s stupid.” He says.

“Yeah.” I half-smile. “Wasn’t meant to be I suppose.”

“Want to know something funny?” I say, reaching over and unplugging my headphones from the computer. “That record single you got me—it inspired a lot of this back when I was working on it,” I say, tapping on the Gorillaz cd.

I press play on my computer, and after a few seconds Graham’s eyes light up.

_This town is coming like a ghost town..._

“Ohhh I love this song,” Graham announces, jumping up.

I laugh. “Oh yeah? I would never have guessed,” I say, and Graham’s face lights up even more. He starts singing loudly and reaching down pulls my hands up into his.

_Do you remember the good old days before the ghost town?_

I laugh. “What are you doing?”

_We danced and sang, and the music played in a de boomtown_

“Come on and dance with me!”

I shake my head no, but he pleads with me even more.

“Come on!”

I shake my head, laughing. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Yes you do,” Graham insists, pulling me up by the arms, and finally I cave, standing to my feet.

“Don’t you remember how to skank?” Graham says, showing me and now I'm laughing so much that there are tears in my eyes.

“Now shut up and dance with me, so I don’t feel silly.”

“You mean skank with you.”

“Yes,” he says and grins. He places a quick kiss on my lips, and it catches me off guard.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No,” he laughs, but I’m not sure I believe him. I pull him closer, hoping to be able to catch the scent of alcohol on his breath, but instead, our heads bump together, and both of us simultaneously yelp in pain.

_This place, is coming like a ghost town_

“Ah, what the hell—” Graham yells, then holding a hand to his forehead. Blindly, he falls to the floor, landing on his tailbone, then begins to have a giggle fit.

I’m laughing so hard that my face is red. I double over, falling onto the ground next to Graham. “Sorry,” I say, between gasps of air.

“Bastard,” Graham breathes and pushes me back. He laughs again. “I’m not lying. I’m sober.”

_This town, is coming like a ghost town_

As both of continue to catch our breath, the song begins to die down. Graham scoots closer to me, face still red from laughing or blushing, I can’t tell. He leans forward and kisses me right on the lips. Nothing. He’s telling the truth. Completely dry.

He pulls back, barely an inch away and says, “It’s been three days.”

“Yeah,” I nod, and my chest feels tight. “I know.”

“I thought about it.”

I break eye contact, looking down at the floor. “And?”

He pushes closer to me, eliminating the space between us. “I made my decision,” he says.

“That was quick,” I joke, and Graham looks back unamused.

I close my eyes, and with my index finger and thumb pinch the side of my thigh where Graham can’t see. I’m still awake. Alright.

In the end, it’s Graham who closes the remaining distance. His hand finds mine, cold and nervous and small. Sober. Innocence looks back at me, waiting for an answer.

A wan smile tugs at his lips.

This kid will be the end of me.

 

 

**

 

  
I used to think that love was the only thing that mattered.

Write an epitaph on my grave: here lies a man who once fell in love with love and then love betrayed him.

It’s that same old story, time and time again.

Boy meets boy. Boy meets girl. They fall in love.

That girl, she doesn’t love you. Oh.

Now's the part when you skip ahead to the very end and read the last page. Is it the fairy tale ending or the straight-to-DVD disappointment? No one wants to know about the complicated, real-life stuff.

Don’t make me think too hard about this. Don’t try and make me reflect on the logistics. I'm happy. I'm skipping to the end of my book. Fleeting completeness.

A lonely heart commits more crimes than you'd think.

Jamie used to say, if you’re unable to get someone out of your head, then they’re probably supposed to be there.

By the time we reach the bedroom, Graham's tongue and teeth are in my ear, and he’s asking me everything, everything.

“What do you like more, being on top or being on the bottom?” Graham whispers into my ear, and my cheeks sting. He’s so innocent sometimes; it kills me.

I kiss his neck, making a trail of kisses up to his ear. “Both,” I answer, and I feel him shiver.

“Equally?” he mumbles, and I feel the heat emanating from his face.

“...if I had to pick?” I think about it for a moment or two. “Bottom.”

“Really?” Graham leans in, seeming fascinated.

I laugh. “What, you think that because I’m older I like to top? I mean I do, but like I said if I had to pick…”

“Why?”

“Do you know what the prostate is?”

“Christ. How dumb do you think I am?”

“Just making sure,” I grin, before kissing him on the cheek.

"Does it feel...weird?"

I smile, running my hands through his hair. “When it’s done right, it can be...mind-blowing.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Graham swallows, looking nervy. “Well, I think I feel more comfortable starting on top, so it’s kind of good that you like the other one better,” he says, and I shiver because now all I’m thinking is about being on my back with Graham inside me. He squeezes my shoulder. "But I want to learn both. When I'm ready."

“I’m not sure we’re ready to go that far yet,” I breathe, but only half of the words make it out.

As soon as I set Graham down on the bed, he pulls me down underneath him so that he’s laying on top of me. We kiss until we’re both hard and breathless.

Graham slips his leg between my thigh, and after finding my bearings, my hands move to his hips to help him start a rhythm.

The bed rocks and creaks and my head is spinning. Graham lets out a soft moan as his lips rest against my collarbone. I hold him the entire time, kissing him, stroking my fingers through his hair and just appreciating the beautiful boy above me. This lovely thing.

"I want to be inside of you," he whispers into my ear, and it almost pushes me over the edge.

I spread my legs a little bit wider, arching my neck back and Graham's lips close around my Adam's apple. I groan as rolls his hips forward, barely sliding against me. I'm so hard that it hurts.

He reaches with his hand to slide the zipper down on my trousers, but I stop him. He looks down at me, defeated.

"Not yet," I say, kissing his jaw. "Not until I get tested."

My hand wraps around the small of his back, pulling him in closer, then slips down, down, down to squeeze his arse. My middle finger finds its way between the back of his legs, over the fabric of his jeans and presses in, teasing him. He squirms, moaning my name into my ear.

“I’m close,” Graham groans just before he comes, moaning my name again as his hips jerk forward and he collapses, ragged and breathless against my chest. After catching his breath, he shifts, hand brushing between my thighs. Feeling that I’m still hard, he swears, muffled, into my chest.

“I need to finish you,” he says, cupping me through my jeans. The move causes me to bite back a moan.

“No,” I reply, pulling his hand up. “This isn't about me. This is about you.” I kiss his hand, then press my forehead to his. I can feel his pulse against his wrist.

“Just kiss me. Please. That’s all I want.”

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

 

 

 

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

The words drip like honey off my lips, taste like a chardonnay dry and wet against my tongue: _I love you, I love you, I love you._

The truth comes out a little at a time. And it spreads just like a fire. Slips off of my tongue like turpentine.

He is beautiful, and I do not deserve him. Underneath my arms, he feels just as vast as the sky, as blue and brainless as God’s love. The sight of him cut through my heart and down the knuckles of my spine, and only one person had done that before, only one. I don’t dare say their name because I have too many ghosts now.

I wake him up with my tongue, because I want to because I need to. He is beautiful. Like snow on a clear day. In the same way some things can only be explained away by sad songs, I needed him. I just follow my sense of things through this winter until I reach a grove of white trees. And he takes me in.

I kiss the crease between his thighs. He is hard, lovely, his mouth parts and wonderful sounds emit from his throat. I kiss him there, then my lips wrap around the curve of his Adam’s apple. When he comes, salty and sweet I swallow, then move to his lips. He smiles against my face, happy, content, innocence incarnate. I want to show him everything. I want to be his teacher. His embrace is like the green silence after a hailstorm. Warm. Lovely. Tongue against my ear. Soft breath.

A clattering sound was tearing up my head as I staggered forward and opened my eyes to a vision I will never see again: childlike naivete, myself at a younger age reflected back at me.

“I love you,” he says, and I don’t know what to say, so I just kiss him back. Loving someone is different than being with them. You can fall in love with someone the same way you do a sunset, transient beauty.

What I want to say is, “I fall in love with you every time I see you,” but I can’t.

“I love you,” he says again, and I falter, lips sticky and stagnant against his collarbone. “I love you.” Again.

“I want to be with you.”

He is beautiful. He is everything. I kiss the soft white flesh of his collarbone. Sleepy eyes greet me from above. I felt a feeling I thought I could never feel again: our naked bodies started glowing, and the air turned such a strange color I thought my life must be leaving me, and with every young fiber and cell inside me I wanted to hold onto it for another breath.

When he comes in my mouth for the first time, I feel palpable guilt. I finally say, “I love you too,” and his face lights up in such a way that can not be understood by anyone except for those naive and in love.

“I will keep you safe,” I say, with my tongue against his throat.  First I put my lips to his upper lip, then to the bottom of his pout, and then I kiss him fully, my mouth on his open mouth, and we meet inside.

 

_I love you._

 

He doesn’t know the monster yet. He is the child who does not know yet how to fear. He is the burn victim who has not yet learned to fear fire. He will know soon enough. But for now, I will enjoy the sunset. I close my eyes and sleep, my hands wrapped around his stomach.

When I wake up again, he is still snoring softly, and after a few minutes of admiring him, I slip out from underneath the sheets and tip-toe out of the room. As I enter the living room I notice his book bag on the ground, and so I move to pick it up and place it back in his bedroom. But as I do so, a couple of books slip out of the bag and onto the floor. Moving to retrieve them, one of the titles catches my attention and my stomach turns over. My eyes scan over the title. _Britpop! Cool Britannia._ Wedged between the pages is a bookmark wedged in between the pages, about halfway through.

I take a deep breath, then leaf through the book, eyes scanning for any reference of myself. I frown, opening the front of the book cover to see the publication date, and finally, my shoulders relax. Okay. Good. It was published long enough ago not to have the information that I’m worried about. Placing the book back I deliver his backpack to his room and head into the kitchen to make breakfast.

Graham is still fast asleep by the time I return. Today’s buttered toast and eggs again, but this time scrambled instead of over-easy, and I’ve included creme fraiche—admittedly to impress I suppose—not that I think Graham will notice.

Graham’s eyes flutter as soon as I enter the room, and I smile to myself, wondering for a moment if maybe he was just pretending to sleep.

“Morning sunshine,” I say, placing his plate and tea on the bedside table.

Graham rubs at his eyes with both hands and blinks a few times. “Breakfast in bed again?”

“Yep.”

Graham grins, then leans forward to kiss me. Cupping my hand behind his head, he lingers for a few more seconds than normal, then pulling back, starts laughing.

“Are you laughing at me?” I ask, mock-offended. Graham’s cheeks are red, and tired eyes smile back at me.

“Yeah,” he says, forcing back a wide grin.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re such an adult,” he says. “You bring me breakfast in bed.”

“Adult?” I repeat, imitating him. “Is this your way of calling me old again?”

“Nooo,” Graham drawls. “That’s not at all what I meant. I meant that you’re nice,” he says, then pausing adds, “Thoughtful.”

“Nice?” I laugh. “Oh well, that’s worse.”

“How is nice worse?”

“Because no boyfriend ever wants to hear that they’re nice,” I say, and it’s not until I see Graham’s face turn pale that I realize that I’ve accidentally slipped. Shit.

“Did you say—” Graham squeaks, his eyes lighting up.

I place a finger to his lips and force back a grin. “No.”

“But you just said—” Graham stutters.

“I didn’t say anything,” I lie, but I can feel my face is turning pink.

“Yes you did,” Graham retorts, punching me in the shoulder. I wince.  “You said, boyfriend. I heard you.”

I shake my head, but it’s getting harder and harder for me to save face. “I said nothing of the sort.”

A wide grin stretches across Graham’s face. “You’re a shit liar, you know that?” He pauses, then studies my face. “Am I really your boyfriend?”

There’s a vulnerable but excited look on his face, brows pressed together and his teeth biting down on his lip. God. What have I gotten myself into?

“Gra—”

“No, you need to say it.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like them,” Graham says, in what sounds like an unironic tone. “They’re...nice.”

“Ouch.” I smile, opening my eyes.

“Actually, no.”

“No, they’re not nice?”

“No, I meant that you need to close your eyes again.”

I laugh. “Why?”

“Just close them!”

“Alright.” I grin. “What are you going to do to me? Tell me I’m nice again?”

“Yeah. I’m going to point out everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah. All the nice bits,” Graham says, then gets strangely quiet. After a beat, he says, “Your face is nice.”

“Well my eyes are a part of my face, you know.”

“Shut up,” Graham says, knocking me in the shoulder. “Don’t be a smartarse.”

Graham falls quiet again, and I can hear the faint sound of raindrops against the window.

“What?” I ask.

Graham’s body weight moves forward on the bed. “This is nice,” he adds, prodding my chest.

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to keep going?”

“Sure.”

Graham’s voice gets smaller. “You’ll have to get closer.”

I edge forward a few inches.

“Nope. More.”

I sigh, then move even closer. “Alright.”

Graham squeaks. “Never mind.”

“No, you have to say it now,” I laugh. “What is it?”

“Alright, but you still have to keep your eyes closed.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

I let out a sigh. “Alright.” The bedsprings creak underneath me as Graham climbs off the bed. “Where you are going—” I ask, but I’m interrupted when I feel Graham’s weight on my knees. Before I know it, he’s climbed into my lap.

“Ohh.”

“Keep your eyes closed.”

A few seconds later I feel Graham’s hands on my skin, moving downward. Faster than I can protest one of his hands slips between my legs. I make a muffled sound of surprise and in turn, Graham laughs.

“Is this what I get for making breakfast?” I moan with my eyes still shut. I can’t see him but I know he must be grinning. He readjusts his sitting position so his hand can have more leverage. I place my hand on the small of his back.

“No, this is what you get for just being you,” he says quietly and kisses me.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to look at you,” I say, pushing him up higher onto my thighs.

“I don’t know…”

“Please?”

Graham is quiet for a few seconds, his hand softly stroking me all the while.

“Please,” I beg, leaning forward into his ear. I’m getting harder now and his grip tightens. I moan into his neck.

“Alright.”

Pulling back, I blink open my eyes. My breath catches in my throat. I’ve not seen him in this way before, so close, from this perspective. He’s looking down at me with doleful eyes and flushed cheeks—clearly embarrassed but his desire is pushing him past that. The sun from the window behind him casts a halo of light around his face. On his lips hangs an anxious smile. He’s nervous, terrified even, and soon as he notices that I’m aware of this he pulls his hand away.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” I say, and he turns a deep shade of red.

“M’not,” he mumbles, and using my hand on his back I push him closer to kiss him. He takes a deep breath. “When are you…” He trails off momentarily, eyes flitting to various corners of the room.

“When are you going to get tested?”

“Today,” I say, but my words are heavy with anticipation. I can still taste him, salty and sweet on my lips. He deserves someone better.

“I’ve never felt anything that felt that good,” he says in a quiet voice, and I feel the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. I turn my head so that I can face him. My thumb reaches up to brush against his lips before I lean forward and kiss him.

“Mm, this morning?” I say, and Graham nods.

“That was nothing,” I hum into his mouth, and he shivers.

His breath catches in his throat. “I c-changed my mind if you want to, you know, I mean…”

I furrow my brow. “What?”

“If you want to be on top I mean, it’s okay, I was just scared but I’m sure—”

I place a finger to his lips to silence him, then smile. “Don’t worry about what I want. I want whatever you want.”

Graham swallows. “Really?”

“Really.”

Graham gives me a meek look, then re-adjusting himself, slips his hands down, down between my thighs. He brushes his hand between my legs and in response, I moan into his ear.

“Does it hurt?” He says, so quietly it’s almost a whisper.

“I wouldn’t let it,” I say, and my lips brush against his ear. “But I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Gra.” I smile, then lean back, pushing myself up and off the bed.

“Wait,” Graham protests. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, then add, “And then I’m going to go get this sorted...” I say, pointing abstractly between my legs.

“I’m sure you’re alright though,” Graham pouts, giving me a needy look.

“I’m sure that you are sure, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to happen.” I smile. “I’m too much of a risk.”

“You talk about yourself like you’re some sort of Casanova,” Graham teases, and I smirk.

“When I’m drunk, I am. And I’ve been drunk a lot lately.” I purse my lips. “Better safe than sorry,” I say, then kiss him on the forehead.

His hands reach up toward my arm, then pull me down. “I love you,” he says, looking up at me with doleful eyes.

I shake my head, then pulling him closer whisper, “you’re lovely.” That’s all I can say. I want to tell him to save those words for someone better. I can still taste him on my lips, all the way to the clinic, innocent and sweet.

 

**

 

Whoever said patience is a virtue did not account for horny young boys sending you text messages for five hours straight. In class. After class. In the waiting room of the clinic.

_Have you gone yet? Are you done? When will be you home?_

_Almost._ I type. Be patient. I’m sitting in a chair in the clinic, in the queue, waiting for my test results, but Graham just can’t be bothered.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a picture message. I inhale. I flip open my phone to see a photo, but before I can process what it is, the doctor comes in and gives me my results.

I’ve got a clean bill of health, he says. Not that I’m that surprised, but after a few months of drunken benders, one can’t be too careful.

I open my phone to see the picture Graham’s sent me and it’s...

Oh, Jesus.

As soon as I walk into the door of my flat I’m greeted with an overly excited Graham jumping into my arms and kissing me in a million different places like some sort of school girl.

“What did they say? Is everything ok?”

“All healthy,” I say, smiling and Graham looks like he’s about to explode. He tugs on my sleeve, dragging me toward the bedroom. I wipe the grin from my face.

“Hold on, Casanova.”

My phone buzzes with a text message. It’s Justine. “Hold on,” I say, and Graham’s face falls.

Justine’s message is simple, direct. _I need to come over._

I begin typing a message back: _not the best time_

A few seconds pass, then Justine responds. _It’s important._

Graham tugs at my collar. “Come on,” he says, hot breath at my ear. I suppose that sparing a few minutes won’t hurt. I drop my phone onto the couch and Graham leads me back toward the bedroom.

"Come on Casanova," he says, and I swear to God he tastes sweeter than anything I've ever tasted.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience on this chapter. I was excited to make this update... hope you enjoy it as well. <3 As always, thank you for your lovely comments and kudos encouraging me to continue! x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day after the day that it all happened, the day that drew the thin line between the pre-guilt and the post-guilt version of me, Jamie and I drank. We drank because we believed we were tragic, and we had that floating desire for melancholia; we were convinced that our lives had suddenly become purposeless, for universally unfair reasons, or at least that’s what we needed to tell ourselves.

Jamie’s was the aftermath of a messy divorce and mine, well…you’ll find out eventually, won’t you? Sometimes I think about what I would give to have us sitting in a bar again at 9:00 a.m., far from God, absolving each other of our sins, the way that only close mates can.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” was the first thing that came out of Jamie’s mouth when he rang me up after it all had happened. The last time I’d seen him, he’d had a look of disgust and contempt on his face. He said he’d thought about it. And then he said a few more things I don’t recall. The hot ash fell from my cigarette onto my arm, and I didn’t feel it. I don’t remember much after that.

When I opened my eyes again, leaning against the wall was Jamie, smoking a cigarette and scratching his chin thoughtfully. I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling and had the feeling of a television left on late at night, all my racing thoughts, my entire life in a small space with nowhere to go and no one to watch, or care.

“I care,” Jamie had said as if he’d been answering something I’d spoken, but I didn’t remember my lips moving. He moved to sit down on the bed next to me and switching his cigarette to the other hand placed his palm over the top of mine. “Trust me, I care,” he repeated, and then he poured me a long drink.

By the end of the night, we were both sad men who’d sussed out the world, and Jamie hung over me; young and hurt and bleeding, waxing poetic, like Hemingway. All at once a man and a mess, devouring life and love and drugs all too fast to claim a certain tangibility to his grief. I couldn’t blame him, but I felt sorry for him, I did. I felt sorry for myself too.

And it was around then, with his nicotine-stained fingertips holding my hand and a sad smile on his face; during the few fleeting seconds of him leaning up against the wall and the smoke drifting up and over his face in a way that made him mysterious to me that I think I fell in love with him, for a moment.

Just like I’m falling in love right now, with this boy, this beautiful, neurotic boy kissing my lips and pulling me into the bedroom and taking off my pants and my shirt and oh—

I give a sharp intake of breath as Graham pushes me down onto my back and he hovers above me, grinning, looking mad. He has me now, and he knows it. Graham cups his palm around me, then leaning down kisses me over the top of my briefs. He’s sweet.

My eyes scan his face. “You alright?”

He swallows, then gives me a nervous look. “Yeah.”

“It’s a lot at once, isn’t it?”

Graham nods. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I say, before sitting up and pulling him closer. I kiss him on the cheek and smile. He looks down at my chest, then up again, and after a pause one of his hands reaches up to squeeze a nipple.

I squirm. “Hey.”

He bites down on his lip. “You should—you should stand up.”

I give him a puzzled look. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

Giving Graham a quick kiss on his forehead, I move to stand up next to the bed. He follows but then lowers to his knees.

I shiver. “Oh.”

Using both hands, he pulls down the waistband of my briefs and his eyes widen as he takes all of me in for the first time.

“Gra, you don’t have to—” I say, but then warm wetness of his tongue circles around the tip of me and I bite down on my tongue. He’s doing what I taught him this morning, move by move, and it’s endearingly sweet, I think, how much he wants to impress me.

A few seconds later he wraps his lips around me for the first time, and I shiver. His hand slides up and over my belly, then down again. His other hand travels to the base of me. Opening his mouth wider, Graham takes a little more of me in, looking up at me all the while with round eyes the shapes of black moons and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to come right there and then. He lifts his tongue while I’m inside him, going forward and back, circling, later forward, then back again as though everything’s moving in slow motion. I thread one of my hands into his hair and tug softly. He moans, deep in his throat, which causes his whole mouth to vibrate and after that, I realize that I’m starting to lose my sense of control. He pulls back, teeth barely scraping against the top of me and I wince loudly.

He looks up at me, guilty and with a face of unease. “What did I do?”

“No, it’s alright,” I say, trying to hide the pain on my face.

“No, tell me. Please. I saw that look on your face...what did I do wrong?” Graham frowns.

“It’s just a little sensitive with teeth is all…”

“Oh…” He looks down at the ground. “I thought—”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” I smile, pulling him forward again. “I did it my first time too.”

“Did you?”

I nod.

“What that one guy?” Graham asks, and already I can sense a pang of jealousy in his voice.

I smile. “We all start somewhere.” I pause, then lift him up by his chin. “Here, I’ll show you. Stand up.”

Graham trembles as he rises to his feet, and I admire how his stomach rises and falls in shallow waves, brown eyes gazing down at me from above.

“Just wrap your lips around your teeth. Like this,” I say, before taking Graham into my mouth. A soft moan emits from his throat. I slide forward, then back, and press my tongue up into the underside so he can feel the sensation. He has a lovely cock, I think to myself, long and lean like him. Just like the broadness of his shoulders, his strength and stature are continually surprising to me in light of his shy nature. I continue to teach by example, then pull back, and circle the tip, admiring how soon the pre-cum there reappears after I do so. Oh, to be young. I could stay here all day, easily.

“Day,” he says, and his hands slip over my shoulders, up my neck, and thread themselves into my hair. He shakes a bit. “Wait.”

I stop, then look up at him with curious eyes. He pulls me up with both hands, then draws his thumb between my lips. I gently bite down, and his gaze glazes over a bit.

I pull back and look him straight in the eyes. “What’s wrong, Gra?”

“Sorry, it’s just I’m going to...if you don’t stop…” He breathes. “And I want us to do...the other thing too.”

I smile. It’s cute, I think, how Graham’s too embarrassed even to say the word sex out loud. “I understand,” I say, rising to my feet. I lean forward and kiss him with salt and the taste of him on my lips. “But...if you’re worried now, trust me, you’re going to want me to take the edge off before we…” I press my head to his and smirk. “Because that will be much more intense.”

Graham’s breath has become shallow at this point, and I feel him squeeze my hand as I lower to my knees again. I’m not one to worship usually, but with him, it’s different. He’s beautiful, untouched, and all I want to do is make him feel everything he can for as long as possible. I make my way up the inside of his thighs, fingertips tracing along the blue veins between his legs. I pause, reaching the intersection, and I stick my tongue out, look up at him and grin.

His face flushes bright red, and he laughs, clearly nervous in his anticipation, and it’s then that a thought hits me. I rise to my feet and a look of disappointment flashes across Graham’s face.

“Why are you—” he begins, but I interrupt him.

“I think we should take a shower first,” I say, and Graham turns an even brighter shade of red.

“But I already—”

“I know you already did,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. “But I want to show you something.”

He looks back at me, pale white.

“Trust me. You’ll like it.” I smile to his ear and grabbing him by one arm pull him toward the shower. I turn the faucet, and while I’m waiting for the water to get warm, I turn to Graham, and he smiles at me in that sweet way, biting his upper lip and looking embarrassed but happy. God, he’s beautiful, I think, and giving a devilish smirk I press him up against the wall. He moans quietly, pressing his hips forward and reaching one hand around to grab my arse and push me into him. A bolt of electricity runs down my spine at the sensation of him grinding against me, and I remind myself once again to move slow, to make this last. After all, it’s his first time.

Pulling the curtain back, I hold Graham’s hand as we both step into the steam. He grins into my ear, still blushing, and I reach for the soap and shampoo.

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” I say as I’m applying soap to both of us. Graham shakes his head, and taking the bottle of shampoo from me, tells me to turn around to face away from him.

“What are you do—?” I ask, but before I finish my sentence, Graham presses himself up against the back of me. He’s hard, I can tell painfully so, and all I want to do right now is bend forward and place both of my hands on the tile so that he can take control.

To my surprise, instead I feel his hands travel up, massaging shampoo into my hair, and I start laughing.

“What?” He says, sounding mock-offended.

“Nothing,” I say. Graham can’t see my expression, but I’m smiling. “You’re just...sweet.”

“What does that mean?”  
I turn around to face him, and he looks at me with a huge grin. I lean forward, kiss him on the lips, and squeeze a dollop of shampoo into my hand to do the same to him. Then, taking soap into my hand, I begin to wash him.

“This isn’t weird at all,” Graham says, with evident sarcasm in his voice, and I playfully bite the lobe of his ear. My hand circles his back and I squeeze his arse tightly. He mewls into my neck. My hand travels between his cheeks, and he jumps, surprised at the sudden intrusion.

I lean back. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning into my shoulder. “Just wasn’t expecting that.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Graham shakes his head. My hand moves down again, and as I kiss him, I drag a soapy hand between his legs, making sure to linger on all the sensitive erogenous zones. He shivers as I press my middle finger against the tight pink ring between his legs. Moving my hand, I apply more soap to myself, then return to where I was, fingers pressing against his pink underside.

He leans into me. “Do you like that?” I ask, and he nuzzles his head against my shoulder. He nods enthusiastically, but he’s too embarrassed to look at me. My free hand reaches up to massage the back of his neck. “Just take a deep breath. Relax. Okay?” I laugh, and he looks up at me, bright red. He nods, and I feel his muscles soften.

“Here, put your leg up, like this,” I say, and lift his left leg up onto the side edge of the shower to spread his thighs wider. I then place one of his hands on the shower wall.

"You're going to want to hold onto something," I say, and smirk when Graham gives me a confused look.

In one swift movement, I move underneath and between his legs so that I’m kneeling on the shower floor with his backside and legs spread out in front of me.

“Oh God, what are you—” Graham begins, but stops as he feels my tongue where my finger used to be. He leans forward, pressing his hand against the shower wall to gain some leverage. I pull back to admire him for a moment, then move forward again and drag my tongue long and slow over him, and he whimpers. I repeat the movement, long and slow, and with my hands on either side of his hips, pulling him apart and the tip of my tongue presses against the tight, pink, beautiful ring. He moans loudly.

After a few more seconds of ruminating there with my lips and tongue, I bring my finger back up to where my mouth was and tell him to relax his legs. My fingers are prepped enough from the soap that it only takes a few more seconds of massaging before he opens up to me, and as soon as the tip of my finger disappears inside him, he moans loudly. Fuck, he’s tight.

My mouth moves between his legs again and using both my tongue and finger I open him up slowly, the tight pink ring giving me more and more leeway. He’s nowhere near where he needs to be ready. Obviously, that will take time. Time and perhaps some toys.

My tongue slips inside him for the first time, and he whimpers, tiny gasps of air emitting from his throat. I’m worshipping him. Everything to him is new, and I want him to feel amazing. Rising to my feet, I replace my mouth with my finger, but this time push all of myself in, to the knuckle. He cries out, in pain or pleasure I’m not sure, and so I lean into his shoulder, whispering into his ear.

“Are you alright?”

He gives a slow nod, face redder than ever, and I feel his anal muscles tighten around me. I pull my finger back, moving in and out slowly, and each time he feels less and less tense. I slip a second finger in, but he tenses up again, so I pull back. I smile to his ear.

“Don’t fret,” I say, kissing the back of his neck.”It’s going to take some time before you’re ready. It’s alright.”

“H-how many—”

“One.”

“No, I know, I mean how fingers would you, uh, be—”

“Three.”

Graham’s voice cracks. “Three?”

I pause. “Three and some change maybe.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Graham gulps, and I laugh.

“That’s why I said we should take our time. Enjoy it.” I kiss the side of his neck, pulling him in close to me so he can feel me between his legs. He moans softly into my ear.

Suddenly the doorbell rings, and both of us jump.

“Who the fuck is that?” Graham says, exasperated, and I can’t blame him. I’ve been winding him up so much for the past few minutes that both of us had forgotten about time passing.

“I don’t know,” I say, kissing him on the forehead and trying to hide my annoyance. I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. “Probably no one. Don’t worry,” I smile, but secretly I’m worries. “I’ll be right back.”

Fussing with my wet hair, I make a beeline for the front door and open it.

“Oh,” Justine exclaims, giving my half-naked body a quick once-over. “I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“Um, well I said that wasn't a good time...”

“Why, is your mother here?” Justine jokes before giving me a dubious look.

I pause, realizing then that Justine’s resolve is stronger than I thought it would be, which is causing for an uncomfortable and awkward silence as we stare at each other in the doorway. Finally, I cave. “Come on in then,” I say.

“This won’t take very long, I promise. It’s important.” She says, making a line toward the living room. She lays her jacket down, and it’s then I notice she has a packet in her hands. She opens her mouth to speak, and then stops. Her ear turns toward the direction of the shower.

“Is someone here with you?”

I bit down on my upper lip. “Well…”

“Oh shit.”

“Well, I mean, I did say it was a bad time,” I joke, but underneath the surface I’m quaking at the thought of Graham opening the door any second now and striding down the hall half-naked, looking for where I’ve gone.

“Fuck,” she says, and her shoulders sink. Her features soften, and for a split second, I almost think she’s going to laugh. But instead, I notice what appears to be mild jealousy mixed with grinning embarrassment flash across her face. It’s the sort of expression I’ve not seen from her in a long time. A low bass note thrums in my stomach, and it becomes achingly apparent to me right then how much I’ve missed seeing her smile.

“Sorry,” She laughs and shakes her head. “I just assumed you’d said that it was a bad time because you are a difficult bastard.”

I laugh. “That’s a fair assumption to make,” I say, and Justine relaxes a little bit more.

“To be honest though, it's not all that surprising. I thought you looked a bit...different,” Justine says, and I arch an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you just look...happier.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah.” Justine swallows and looks away, then after chewing on her words looks back at me. “You’ve got that look on your face, the look you get when…”

“When I what?”

“That stupid look you get when you’re head over heels for someone. Like a grinning idiot,” she taunts, but her tone is more playful than accusing.

“Oh,” I say, and look down at my feet.

“You don't deny it then?”

“You seem mighty curious,” I tease, and Justine rolls her eyes.

“Don’t be a wanker.” She pauses, as though chewing over her next few words carefully. “No. It makes me happy. I mean that. Honestly.”

“What does?”

“To see you finally be happy again.”

I take a long breath. I’m at a loss for words. I shoot Justine a weak smile. She smiles back, and there’s that warm, bubbly feeling again. I’m not convinced you ever fall out of love with someone completely.

She looks down at the packet in her hands, then after some hesitancy reaches for her jacket again. “You know what, I’ll come back another time. I don’t want to interrupt whatever—” She motions abstractly toward the bathroom.

“It’s alright,” I say, and I resist the urge to touch her shoulder. I motion to the packet in her hands. “What did you want to talk about?”

Justine stares at me for a moment, then clears her throat. She gives an awkward laugh, then reaches forward and places her hand on my cheek. “I mean it,” she says.

“Mean what?”

“That I’m happy for you.” She pauses, holding eye contact with me. “I know you don’t believe it, but I am.”

I blink, lick my lips, then stare down at the ground. “Hah,” I start, but then Justine interrupts me.

“It’s serious, I hope?”

I look away, then back again. I nod, and my eyes burn a bit.

“Is she someone I know, or...?”

"Her?" I shift uncomfortably on my feet. “It’s—”

“Damon, where’d you go?” I hear Graham yell from the bathroom, and my blood turns to ice.

“Oh god,” Justine says much too loudly, and now I’m terrified that Graham is going to come out at any moment and my life is going to flash by before me.

Justine laughs, and to my surprise, lunges forward and hugs me tightly with both arms. It was not the reaction I was expecting. She’s warm and beautiful against my chest, and I realize now that I’d almost forgotten her smell.

“You deserve this,” she smiles, and I tell from the look on her face that she means it genuinely. “And I hope whoever he is, that he makes you happy, I do. I know you needed that for so long, but you felt like...” She trails off, and both of seem aware of the palpable discomfort the conversation has turned to awkward territory again. “I know it’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I uh—”

“Anyway.” She smiles. “I’ll leave you be.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I can’t tell you how it is nice to see you happy again… especially after the other night.”

A flicker of pain crosses my face, and to my dismay, Justine notices.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I should have found you after all that happened to make sure you were okay, and I didn’t.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it was awful of me, you probably needed a friend, and I wasn't—”

“It’s alright. Really,” I say, and I hold myself back from touching Justine again. I want to so badly. “It’s not your responsibility to be my friend anymore, remember?”

It’s then that I realize I must have said the worst possible thing because a conflicted and melancholic look passes over Justine’s face. She clears her throat. “Well, I should probably go.”

“Right.”

“I’ll come back...tomorrow?”

“Sure.” I shoot her a smile, but I know she can see right through me.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Justine says, before hugging me. It’s the most physical contact we’ve had in a year, and where her hands touch me, I feel fire on my skin. She squeezes my shoulder, and for a second I think she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t. The door shuts behind her, and I feel my heart drop to my knees. Melancholia would be the right word for it, I suppose.

There’s something there, still. Something that always hurts, but I don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to touch it. Graham shouts at me again from the other side of the apartment, and I hear the shower being turned off. A few seconds later he walks out of the bathroom, towel tied around his waist and a big grin on his face. Now I know the look that Justine was seeing on me.

“What’s wrong?” Graham says, before circling his arms around my waist. “You look sad.”

“Nothing,” I say, wrapping my arms around the small of his back and pulling him closer.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody,” I say, and nuzzling into his shoulder, I tickle his ear. “Come on. Let's get back to where we were.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**  
To be continued.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies that this update took so much longer. I wanted to finish The Selfish Giant so I could focus wholly on this story. I wasn't going to post this weekend because this chapter was a lot of exposition and harder to write for me. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but alas. Sometimes you must go forward. :) That said, there are probably a few mistakes, which I apologize for. 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your wonderful comments and kudos and messages on Tumblr. <3 It makes me happy to know that people are enjoying the story. xx Happy Holidays!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jamie tastes like cherries and whiskey. All of him does, actually, and that's the funny thing because I never expected that. Then again I didn't expect him to kiss me either, but sometimes these things happen.

In the men's loo. After a few drinks. My memory of it is fuzzy, at best. But I remember thinking that, distinctly, how lovely he tasted, even when he came because I wasn't expecting any of that to happen either. Neither of us was.

Jamie doesn't remember the actual events, or if he does, he denies it to this day. Our memories of it were tenuous, at best. The impetus for us to kiss one another happened after the seventh or eighth drink, well into the boozy camaraderie of a drunken night. It could have been anyone, I guess. At least that's what I tell myself.

Mm. Whiskey and cherries. I remember the way Jamie's hands tugged at my hair. My lips, he'd said. It was my fucking lips.

I ran my tongue over the front of my teeth and grinned. Jamie pulled my head forward so that he was at the back of my throat and pulsing, came into my mouth hard and sweet and shaking and I'll never forget that sound he made.

Back then, I convinced myself that he loved me as much as I loved him. Funny how much difference a little alcohol can make.

Forty-two years of life on this planet and you think I would have it down now. I don’t. The older I get, the more confusing it is. The older I get, the more my dreams and reality part ways and leave long and lonely valleys in between them.

Maybe I’m doomed to keep making the same mistakes over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” I had said the next morning, for what had to have been the fifth or sixth time. But Jamie, I remember he just looked at me. He just looked at me and stared.

In my peripheral, I watched Jamie reach into his back pocket and pull out a cigarette with a long sigh.

“S’alright,” he replied.

No, it wasn’t alright. It wasn’t okay at all.

“I was drunk,” I said, as though it’ll make a difference.

“Yes, you were,” Jamie replied before he turned to face me. “As was I.”

“I’m an awful person—”

“Des—”

“—and you should just leave now because I’ve fucked this up too.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.” I shook my head. “I was doing so well, and everything was fine, and then I had to go and…” I paused. “I had to go and fuck it up all over again.”

“Damon, listen—”

“You should just leave. Or I should leave. Yeah, I’ll just leave,” I rambled, pushing myself up to stand, but not before Jamie pulled me back down by the ankle.

“Shut up,” Jamie said, with a cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “And sit down. Jesus. You’re such a drama queen sometimes.”

I pressed my back up against the wall. “This is why I shouldn’t drink. Because I do things like this.”

“Yeah, you’re right, mate. There are lots of reasons you shouldn’t drink,” Jamie says very matter-of-factly, and my heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. “But this fucking isn’t one of them.”

I straightened my shoulders. “What does that mean?”

Jamie looked away, taking a long drag off his cigarette. He laughed underneath his breath. “All I’m saying is—getting drunk and fooling around with me should be the least of your worries right now.” He turns to look at me. “At least it should be.”

“Well, that makes me feel loads better.”

“It should,” Jamie said pointedly, before shaking his head and staring off into the distance. The orange street lamp outside my bedroom window cast long shadows across his face.

After a long pause, Jamie cleared his throat. “By the way, I believe you," he says, and then clarifying, adds, "I believe you that you didn’t know.”

My mouth forms a thin line, and I say nothing.

“Not that I…” Jamie stopped, as though trying to think of the right words to say. “I mean, I’m not saying that I approve of what you did, but, you know.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“I know you’re not the type of person to—at least you don’t seem like the type of person who would…”

Even Jamie was struggling with saying the word now.

“What I’m trying to say is that obviously, it meant more to you than just a—”

“Jamie—”

“What?”

“I get it. You’re making this more uncomfortable than it already is, alright?” I paused, then cleared my throat. “Look, I realize that I fucked up.”

Jamie licked his lips and took a deep breath. “What did Justine say about it?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “She won’t talk to me. She won’t see me. The press is outside her door every bloody second of the day. I don’t think she’d contact me even if she wanted to.”

“And what about…?” Jamie trailed off again. The hesitance in his voice, the whole walking-on-eggshells around the subject thing, it still stings.

“My lawyer’s taking care of it. Trying to come up with a solution.”

“A solution?”

“A money thing.”

“You mean a bribe.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Jamie, what am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” Jamie replied. “I guess I just thought that maybe you’d use this as an opportunity to, you know, publically announce...”

“Publicly announce what?”

“Never mind.”

I furrow my brow. “No, Jamie, look at me. What exactly are you getting at?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

“It’s not alright, what you did,” Jamie says quietly.

“Jesus Christ, Jamie. I’m aware of that—”

“Hang on, lemme finish—” Jamie said, raising his voice. “But you’ve got to stop leading this double life, mate. It’s mental.” He chewed on his bottom lip.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

Jamie sighed. “I mean, maybe you should consider that...I dunno, maybe you should just be honest with yourself.”

“Be honest with myself?” I repeated, and Jamie nodded his head slowly.

“I'm a monster, Jamie,” I said, and Jamie, shoulders sagging, just gave me the same conflicted look he had a few minutes before. "How's that for honesty?"

“Well,” Jamie said, extinguishing his cigarette into the ashtray next to him. “I suppose the jury’s still out on that one.”

My stomach turned at Jamie’s words. But he must have noticed the despair on my face because a few seconds later he patted my thigh.

“I think you’re alright though,” he assured, then turning to take one last drag on his cigarette, grinned. “And you’re not a terrible snog either I suppose.”

 

 

**

 

 

I love to see him happy. I love to see that passing grin, the one he tries to cover. That’s all I want.

Fuck. I’m not sober.

I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it. Admittedly I’ve missed the plot. Maybe I’m cursed to keep repeating the same mistakes over and over and over. Maybe that’s the meaning in this. Maybe there’s no meaning.

But hey, I’m not dead. I’m not a shade passing. I’m flesh and blood here. My nerve-endings on fire. My chapped lips press against Graham's, capturing murmurs, words linger then fade away. I contemplate that small space between our mouths, the O that I draw my finger around. I rise, stagger into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face in one swift motion.

And losing it, losing it is wonderful. Losing it is great.

“I started a band,” is what Graham says to me in the doorway of my bedroom, and his face looks like VHS tape on fast forward. I’m watching his lips move, but not hearing him speak. There’s a ringing in my ears. What Graham doesn’t know is that I’ve swallowed two mouthfuls of mouthwash to hide the smell of alcohol on my breath.

“I started a band, and Alex wants to have practice tonight,” is what Graham says, and grins, with the same tender pink lips I’ve been worshipping and his hand squeezing mine. I told you, I just want to make him happy. That’s all I want.

“Is that alright?”

My words stick to my tongue, and only air comes out. Sometimes I forget to breathe.

Why wouldn’t it be okay? I think to myself. Graham’s already acting as though I’m some parent figure. Some adult. Another reason to feel awful, admittedly, because I don’t want to accept how problematic all of this is. He’s a child. I am an adult. Or maybe I am a child hiding in the body of an adult. I’m not sure anymore.

“Alex doesn’t understand why I like you so much,” Graham says, and it’s the exact thing I don’t want to hear. “He doesn’t understand why you’re so amazing.”

“I’m not amazing,” I say, splashing more cold water over my face. “Far from it.”

Love is love is love. The phrase repeats in my head. Love is love is love except for old men dating young children. That is not apart of the deal. My conscious is a fucking asshole.

“I gave someone your CD,” Graham says, and the inelegant way the words slip out of his mouth gives me the reason to believe that he didn’t mean to tell me.

“Excuse me...what exactly did you do?”

“Your project...with Jamie,” Graham stutters, then pausing, recomposes himself. “I had some people at The Beat Factory listen to it. And you know what? They liked it! They liked it a lot.”

“Gra that was private—”

“They want to try and get you on a label again,” Graham says, and his voice is going a million miles an hour now.

I press my fingers to both of my temples. “I don’t want to be on a—”

“Yes you do,” Graham interrupts. He grabs me by the arm. “You deserve it. You are so talented.”

“Graham.”

“It’s true. You’re so much better than just being a teacher—”

“Graham.”

Graham swallows, then stares at me. “I’m going to go.” He pauses, then licking his lips says, “I love you.”

I purse my lips, look down at the ground, then up again. The alcohol’s wearing off. I need another drink. Liquid stamina.

“I know,” I say, and it’s not the right answer. Of course, it isn’t. Graham gives me a pained look. We haven’t gone all the way yet. There’s still time to turn back before the point of no return. There’s still time to repent for my sins.

“Alex says that I should stay away from you,” Graham mumbles. “He says that you’re not good for me. But I keep telling him I see how loving you are,” Graham says quietly. “I just tell him that you’re a sad person and that’s why you act the way you do.”

“Graham—”

“I read about you,” Graham deflects, looking me straight in the eye. “I read everything about you and Justine.”

I swallow, and my tongue tastes bitter. “What did you read—”

“I know you’re a good person, Dames,” Graham says, with a big grin on his face. “I know that you’re capable of it. You’re just scared. You’re just scared to say it.”

There’s a long pause, and then I feel Graham’s eyes on my forehead. “Was that Justine at the door yesterday?” He cracks a small smile.

Graham places his hand on my forearm. “It’s alright. You can tell me. I won’t get mad,” he says, and I feel my spirit leaving my body.

“Are you still in love with her? Is that why you won’t say it back to me?”

_Yes._

“No,” I say. “Gra, listen…” I take a deep breath and lift my hand up to touch his cheek. I smile. His eyes are full of hope, and it breaks me, it does.

I lean forward, kiss him on the lips and lean back to admire the colors of amber dancing in his eyes. I squeeze both of his wrists. “I love you,” I finally say, and he grins.

It’s not a lie.

It’s just...complicated.  
All of this is complicated.

An hour passes by after Graham leaves for practice and I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. Selfishly, I wish he were here, but I push the thought from my mind.

My hands fumble over papers on my desk, and I press my index finger to one temple. I haven’t been able to focus on anything lately. Not a damn thing.

My phone vibrates, jerking me back to reality. It’s Jamie.

_How are things?_

_Good,_ I reply.

_How’s Graham?_

I freeze, wondering if he knows. If maybe Jamie’s caught onto all of this and I’m just terrible at hiding it.

 _He’s at practice._ I type back.

_Practice with you?_

_No, band practice._

_Oh. Jealous?_ Jamie texts and I can see the smirk on his face.

_What are you playing at?_

_Why so defensive? :)_

_Sorry._

Drinks later?

I frown down at my phone screen. _Maybe,_ I type.

_Alright, humbug. Let me know. :)_

My phone vibrates again. This time it’s Justine. _Now a good time?_

I sigh. My fingers hover over the keyboard. _Sure._

Justine arrives within the hour, and as I open the door, the same packet that was in her arms yesterday is still there, and a sudden chill runs down my spine.

“Hey,” she says, as I open the door.

“Hey.”

Her eyes flick upward to meet mine, glassy. “How are you?”

My arm slides up against the door. “I’m alright,” I say.

“Can I come in?”

I nod, stepping aside to allow her entry. Justine walks four or five paces into the room before stopping with her back turned toward me.

“Um, I don’t really know how to do this in any way that…” Justine trails off.

“What way?” Damon asked, furrowing his brow.

“Look, there isn’t any...easy way for me to go about this,” Justine says, swallowing slowly. She nods toward the kitchen bar. “Um, can we sit down?”

I nod, and both of us take a chair. I lower my chin and attempt to make eye contact with her, but she won’t let me. Justine slides the packet across the table and takes a slow, deep breath. My stomach twists into an anxious knot.

“I need you to sign these papers,” she says, in a voice so small I can barely hear her.

I shake my head. My ears are really ringing now. White noise. “I’m sorry, what?”

Justine clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. She looks at me with glassy eyes. “...Divorce papers.”

My stomach twists and I feel nauseous. Every muscle in my body tightens up. I knew it had to happen eventually, but I still wasn’t ready for it.

“Justine—”

“I’m sorry, Damon,” she says in a low voice. “This isn’t easy for me either—”

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“Please don’t be difficult,” she says, breaking eye contact again. “You knew this was going to happen, Damon. Don’t make me be the arsehole here, alright?”

“You’re not,” I stammer. “But Justine, look at me,” Damon said, bowing his head to meet her gaze.

“I still love you.”

“Damon—”

“Don’t you understand that?”

“Des, please,” Justine says. Tears are running run down her face in streaks.

“Please, what?”

“Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

I frown. “Are you marrying him? Is that why you want me to sign these?”

“Damon—”

“Tell me the truth, is that why?” I repeat, and my voice cracks.

Justine’s face flattens into a straight line. She can’t even look at me.

It feels as though all of my inside parts have come unglued. I open my mouth to speak, but my voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. “I would give you more than him, and you know that.”

“Damon—” Justine starts, pressing a finger to one temple. “Would you just sign the papers? Please,” she begs, with her eyes welling over, and now I feel like an arsehole because I am. I am a complete arsehole.

Air passes between my lips, but again, nothing comes out. “I can’t.”

“Alright,” Justine says, lifting herself up off the chair. She wipes her face with one hand, eyes rimmed red, and pushes the packet of papers toward me. “I’ll let you sleep on it then, how’s that?” She looks at me; finally, tears welling over, trying to hold back. I’ve not made this easy for her. If anything, now I’ve just made things worse.

“Justine,” I say, reaching out to grab ahold of her hand. She immediately tenses up.

“Justine, this isn’t over. I know it isn’t. Please,” I beg. My own eyes are burning now. I don’t care about my dignity. I’ll bleed on the floor if I have to, to make her understand. “I’m different now. Things are different. I’m better than I was. Please.”

Tears well up and fall down my cheeks in hot streaks. “Please. Take me back.”

“And what about him?” Justine says, with pain in her voice.

“Him?”

“Have you already forgotten about him?”

“Who?”

“Jesus. Just listen to yourself, Damon. If you’re not doing it to me, you’re doing it to someone else.”

“Doing what?”

Justine lets go of my hand, allowing her arm drop limply to her side. “You really don’t see all the pain you cause other people, do you?” She smoothes a hand over her forehead, picks up her purse takes a deep breath. “Look, I have to go. I’m sorry.”

My shoulders hang limp as I watch her exit. The word “please” lingers on my tongue well after she’s left, and after a while, I lay down and say it to no one.

 

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

When I wake up again, I wake up to the feeling of someone shaking me and shouting my name. My eyes split open and along with them a pounding headache.

“Damon!”

I groan.

“Damon!”

“What?” I reply, grimacing, and finally, my eyes match the face to the voice.

“Are you alright?” Graham asks me with his eyes wide. “I thought you were dead!”

I groan again, louder this time. “Why on Earth would you think that I was dead?”

Graham picks up a vodka bottle from the bedside table and holds it in front of my face. It’s half-empty. He turns it over to illustrate this and I groan again.

Graham's eyebrows knit together in concern. He seems more scared than angry if anything. “What happened?” He grills me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I press my thumb and forefinger to both temples and squeeze my eyes shut. Oh, right. Justine. Here comes the pain again.

“Nothing,” I lie.

Graham’s mouth twists into a scowl. “This isn’t nothing,” he says, holding up the bottle. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Graham, just leave it, please—”

“Is it the papers on the table?”

“Graham.”

“Did Justine come over again?”

“GRAHAM.”

“What?”

“Why are you going through my things?”

Graham frowns, indignant. “Because I’m worried about you. I came home from practice, all excited to see you finally. I couldn’t wait, in fact, and then I find you here in the bed and—”

I put up a stop-hand. “I get it,” I say, sighing. “I’m sorry.”

My head’s pounding now. It’s the only thing keeping me from processing reality.

Graham fists a bunch of my t-shirt and lowers his voice an octave. “Hey.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to be sad like this.”

“Don’t worry about me, Gra.”

Graham shakes his head. “No,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “Let’s go somewhere. Let’s get dinner. Let’s do something fun. It’ll be like a date. I’ll pay.”

“A date?” I laugh, admittedly, unintentionally. “Graham, you don’t have any money. It’s alright.”

“Yeah, I do,” Graham counters, puffing up his chest. “I have money.”

I take a deep breath and turning give him a slight smile. “Alright.”

  
**

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

My ears were ringing again. White noise. Graham was just a shape in front of me, frowning, picking me up with both arms and dragging me toward the bed.

“Hey,” he said, slapping his hand against my cheek. “Come on. Get your clothes on.”

I blinked a few times. My eyes were throbbing; my head was pounding. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret,” Graham said, with a sly smile on his face. He threw a shirt at my chest, and it landed in my lap. “Now come on already.”

“I don’t want to go out, Gra.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No,” I laughed underneath my breath. My face fell into my hands. “I’m hungover.”

Graham disappeared then reappeared a few moments later, holding a hot mug with both hands. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I made you coffee. Now come on.”

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. Graham was so lovely to me. I didn’t deserve it. Justine was right. All I do is hurt everyone I love.

“Graham, I...” Words stuck to my tongue. I couldn’t say it.

“What’s wrong?”

I swallow thickly. “Nevermind,” I say, shaking my head.

Graham paused. He ran his hand over the back of mine, squeezing it and then lacing our fingers together. Electricity shot down my spine, and I shivered. I stared at Graham’s hand for a long moment before bringing his knuckles up to my lips. Graham leaned forward, wrapped his long fingers around the back of my neck and gave me a sweet kiss. He smiled, and my stomach turned over again. I felt like puking.

“Graham, there’s something I need to tell you—”

“You can tell me later,” Graham interrupted, covering my mouth with his hand. “After dinner.” Graham’s face lit up. “Ohh, what if we did dinner and a movie? That would be fun.” He reached down to grab me by the hand again and squeezed tightly.

“Now that we’re official, I want everyone to see you.” Graham grinned, looking more innocent than ever, and my stomach turned over again.

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing. “Official?”

“I can’t believe I’m dating a pop star.”

I laugh. “A pop star? Gra—” I stop, seeing the look on Graham’s face. I know I should let the poor boy be happy. “Alright,” I concede, pressing his hand to my cheek. “Let’s go out.”

 

 

**

 

 

I can tell by the flustered look on Graham’s face that the restaurant we end up going to is fancier than he expected.

“I feel underdressed,” he hisses into my ear, and I smirk.

“Don’t worry, you look beautiful,” I say, squeezing his hand in mine as we make our way to the table.

I order a bottle of wine, and Graham’s eyes widen as the waiter sets it on the table. It’s just occurred to me that all of this must be new to him.

“Isn’t this place expensive?” He whispers across the table, and I laugh.

“It’s alright. Get whatever you want,” I say. “It’s on me.”

“But I was supposed to take _you_ out,” Graham replies, sounding guilty.

“You are.” I smile as I pour both of us a glass of red wine.

Graham takes one sip and wrinkles up his nose. “This tastes funny.”

“Haven’t you had wine before?”

“No, I guess not.” Graham lowers his gaze and begins gnawing on his nails. “Is that bad?”

I can’t help but notice that I’m unconsciously grinning now. “No. It’s not bad.”

Graham brings his hand up to chew at his nails nervously, but as soon as he sees me staring him drops it to his lap.

“So, those papers on the kitchen counter…”

I let out a long sigh and force a weak smile.

“What were they?”

“Graham,” I say, hoping my intonation will get the point across. “I don’t think this is the time or place—”

“Justine wants a divorce,” Graham answers bluntly, and all the blood drains from my face.

I break eye contact and stare down at my fork. My hands busy themselves with the napkin, folding and unfolding, then folding again.

“Right,” I say, without looking at him.

Graham looks back at me with wide-open eyes. “And?”

“And that’s it.” I take a long sip of wine and place the glass on the table with a firm grip. I smile with thin lips. “That’s all she wrote.”

“Well, I mean, isn’t that a good thing, sort of…I mean…” Graham stumbles, muttering half of his words and staring down at the table. His voice becomes even tinier. “For us, you know…”

“Graham,” I say, giving him yet another please-let’s-not-talk-about-this smile, but my voice cracks.

Graham frowns. There’s a wounded look on his face. “You still love her, don’t you?”

“I love lots of people, Gra,” I reply, and lifting my glass up, take another drink to hide my expression. “That doesn’t mean I need to be with all of them.”

“But you were married for a long time, weren’t you?”

“Eighteen years.”

“Wow. Eighteen years. That’s as old as me.”

_Jesus fucking Christ._

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it, Gra,” I say softly, and Graham seems to take the cue. I clear my throat. “She’s getting married.”

“Oh,” Graham replies, picking at his fingers.

“Graham?”

“What?”

“There's something I need to tell you,” I say, and Graham turns the color of the white wall behind him. I furrow my brow. “What’s wrong? You look sick?”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Graham asks in a tiny voice, and my heart breaks a little just to hear the words come out of his mouth.

“What? No.” I laugh and shake my head. I reach out and place my hand on top of his. “No, no, not at all. I’m not breaking up with you.”

“So what is it then?”

I lean my head to one side and sigh. “Well, it’s...complicated.”

I look up, and Graham is staring back at me blankly. "I don't understand," he says.

“It's something bad that I did a long time ago.” I pause, running my hand over the top of his. “And I’m worried that you’ll look at me differently once I tell you.”

Graham looks at me quizzically. “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make me hate you.” He leans forward, squeezing my hand tightly.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them again, Graham has leveled his chin with mine and is looking me straight in the eye. “Alright,” he says timidly. “Tell me then.”

“Alright. A long time ago, I—”

“Oy, I didn’t expect to see you two here,” a familiar voice says from behind me, and I nearly jump out of my chair. I look up to see Jamie looking smugly back at me. Usually, he grins with all his teeth when he sees me, but not now. Every muscle in my body tightens up.

“Hi, Jamie!” Graham says, nearly leaping from his chair—the sight of which would make me laugh if I wasn’t busy being terrified.

“Hi Graham,” Jamie replies, ruffling the hair on Graham’s head. He gives me a penetrating look. “I didn’t expect to see the both of you here.”

“Oh yeah, we just decided to get some dinner, you know.” I try to shrug, but my body doesn’t seem to want to move anymore.

Jamie lifts an eyebrow. “Special occasion?”

I smile at Jamie with tight lips. “Yeah. Sort of. You could say that.”

“Damon’s getting a divorce,” Graham blurts out, and I immediately feel the heat in my cheeks. My mouth flattens into a straight line.

Graham, seeing my response, folds into his chair, shoulders sinking. “Shit. I probably shouldn’t have said that.” He gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry...”

“It’s alright,” I say, biting down on my tongue and when I look back at Jamie he looks horrified.

“Jesus,” Jamie says, before placing a hand on my shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it just happened.” I bit down hard on my tongue. “Look, Jamie, I appreciate it, but this isn’t the time—”

“Hey, I understand,” Jamie says, before giving me a hearty pat on the back. He lifts his chin, glances at Graham, then back at me. “So I take it Graham’s keeping you company then?”

I run a hand over my scalp, immediately relieved to have an alibi. Jamie’s going to find out sooner than later, I know that, but I’d rather prolong it for as long as possible. “Right.” I force a plastic smile.

“Don’t worry, I’m taking care of him,” Graham says, then reaches out to grab me by the hand and laces our fingers together. All the blood drains from my face. No. Don’t. Please. Not now. I wrench my head back, but it’s not quick enough, and when I glance back at Graham to gauge his reaction there’s an apparent woundedness on his face as if I’ve just run over his puppy.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping Jamie didn’t notice the gesture, but when I open them again, I know he must have because the look on his face is less than friendly.

“Looks like you both have gotten quite close in the last month, haven’t you?” Jamie says, and his lips have formed a flat line. “How your practice going, Graham?”

“Uh,” Graham blushes, then laughs. “Well, we haven’t practiced in a couple of weeks.”

“Is that so?” Jamie says, turning to me, and it feels as though his eyes are burning holes in my skin. “What have you two been doing the last two weeks then?”

Graham opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him. “Graham’s been practicing with his band,” I say firmly, locking eyes with Jamie. He knows. I can’t even pretend in front of him anymore. Jamie can see right through me. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Jamie lifts an eyebrow.

“That’s all,” I repeat, firmly enough so that Jamie will know the conversation is over.

“Good,” Jamie replies, giving both of us a tight smile. “Well, I'm glad you've got Graham to watch over you. You shouldn't be alone. Give me a call when you're home, yeah?” He nods his head at me. “We’ll talk.”

I take a long sip of wine. “Cheers, Jamie.”

“Cheers,” Jamie returns, then turns to look at Graham. “Be careful around this old bugger. He’s got some bad habits you shouldn’t pick up from him.”

Graham laughs nervously. “Alright.”

“No. I mean it,” Jamie smirks, but his tone is more serious than funny. “Have a good night you two.”

I lift my glass to Jamie, lips tight, every muscle and bone in my body frigid from both fear and anger. Right now, at this very moment, I want nothing more than to run away; run as far and fast as my legs will take me.

 

 

  
**

 

 

The rest of the dinner goes as expected, and after Jamie leaves, it takes little time for my anxiety to melt away in Graham’s presence. In fact, it’s not until we’re halfway through the movie in the dark theatre—thankfully absent of people—that Graham’s hand clamps onto my wrist, and he hisses into my ear that I remember his age.

“You didn’t tell me this was a scary movie.”

“Graham, the movie is called Evil Dead, what were you expecting?” I press my lips to his ear, tickling him with my lips.

“Yeah, but this is scary.”

“Haven’t you seen the original?”

“No. What’s the original?”

I roll my eyes and lean back into my chair. I laugh underneath my breath. “Graham…”

He stares back at me innocently, clearly annoyed. “What?”

Suddenly the screen flashes and the previous silence is replaced by screams as the monster enters the scene. Graham jumps up from his chair and squeezes my wrist so tightly I’m afraid he’ll break it.

“Jesus!”

I laugh as quietly as I can, tears in my eyes, and put my arm around Graham's shoulders. I pull his head toward my chest, and he clings to me tightly in response. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the scary monsters.”

Graham immediately pushes himself off, mock contempt on his face, and punches me hard in the chest. “Shut up. Don’t be an arse,” he hisses, and I'm grinning from ear to ear.

Minutes later he’s clinging to me again, warm head pressed into my shoulder, messy brown hair tickling soft against my cheek, and I couldn’t be any happier if I tried.

 

 

 

 

 

**


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies this update took so long. To be honest chapters like this tend to take longer to write...you'll find out why when you read this one. ;) Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you for all of your lovely comments and support (on tumblr and here), you all make writing this so much more worthwhile and I could not be more grateful to be in such a supportive fandom. <3 My apologies for any mistakes, it's quite late so there's bound to be a few. I hope you enjoy this chapter. x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Graham holds my hand in the back of the taxi again. He’s quiet, and there’s bemusement on his lips as though he’s aware of something I am not. He leans against the window and the street lights pass over his face in orange waves. On reflection, this has been one of my better nights. And no, this time I’m not drunk with my usual cocktail of chemical happiness. No, this time I have him, and there’s little left in life that makes me as happy as he does. I fall sideways into Graham’s shoulder, and he turns to me, concerned.

“You alright?”

I stare at him a long moment, a sad smile hanging from the corners of my lips. Graham’s eyes are dark, infinite. I can see my ghosts in them. I cup his head with both hands, and kiss him deeply— a substantial passionate kiss that draws a small mewl from him—and then I lay my head in his lap.

“Dames!” He hisses. “The driver’s going to see.”

“I don’t care.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” I shake my head. Graham’s lap is warm, comforting, and he’s brushing his fingers through my hair carefully, lovingly. I’m sober as a stone.

“Come ‘ere,” I say, and pulling his head down to meet mine, we kiss the rest of the way home.

  
**

Tonight is not how I imagined it would be. I suppose I believed it would be different; perhaps chaotic, hurried due to the impatience that had come from waiting for so long—but no. It was sweet. Just like Graham. And I wasn’t prepared for that.

He does love me, I can see it in his eyes. At least in the sense of the word that he understands. And it’s that sort of untainted, naive desire—the best kind of love, you know? I’d forgotten that existed. And it looks beautiful on him, that sort of love.

As soon as the door clicks behind us, my arms wrap around his waist.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For getting me out of here. And my head.” My hand brushes the side of his cheek, and Graham looks at me squarely in the eyes.

“You alright?”

I force a smile. I didn’t think I was that obvious. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie. You’ve looked sad ever since we left the theater.” Graham grabs me by the chin. “Hey. Look at me.”

“I’m looking.”

Graham’s face falls immediately, and now I know that I’ve done something wrong. “I know I can’t replace her—”

“Graham—”

“No, just listen for one second.” Graham points his chin at the ground and sighs. “I know I’m never going to be enough for you, but I want to be.”

“Hold on—”

“I know you think I’m too young and immature, but I’m not—”

I place my hand over his mouth. “Graham. Stop. Please.”

“Stop putting yourself down, alright?”

I remove my hand and Graham looks back at me with glassy eyes.

“You are enough.”

A tear runs down Graham’s cheek, and now I feel bad. Now I feel like an arsehole. “Hey,” I whisper, pulling him into my arms. He feels small underneath my hands, distant. My ghosts are in his eyes. I can see them there now, more than ever, staring back at me. And that scares me more than anything else.

I press my lips to his neck, tasting salt, and try to collect my thoughts.

A familiar voice echoes in my mind. _You’re here, but you’re a million miles away._

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

_Shit._ I’m saying my thoughts out loud again.

“It’s nothing.”

I feel Graham’s eyes on the back of my head. “What are you thinking about right now?”

“Right now? At this very moment?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m thinking about how glad I am that I gave you a C.”

Graham’s face breaks into a huge grin, and he punches me in the arm.

“What?”

“Wanker,” Graham taunts, but he’s smiling still. His long fingers move to the buttons of my shirt. He peels both sleeves off my arms and tosses my shirt to the floor. I prop myself up on both elbows and tilt my head to the side, admiring my higher vantage point. Graham’s jeans are clinging to his hips, and his t-shirt has risen just enough to reveal a patch of his pale stomach. There follows a prolonged spell of Graham’s eyes trailing up and down my body, pink lips slightly parted, pupils dilated. He’s nervous—that much is obvious—but nervous like a cat set in a strange and unfamiliar room. His hands automatically fall to his trousers, and the sound of buttons unclasping and fabric being pulled down around ankles fills the quiet room.

I run my finger down the side of his cheek. “Hold on,” I say, getting up from the bed, and Graham looks disappointed until I return with two glasses and a bottle in hand. I place all three on the table and pouring wine into each, hand a glass to him.

“To calm the nerves,” I explain.

“My nerves,” Graham says.

“Our nerves,” I correct, and Graham smirks behind his glass.

Graham gives me a soft look and sets his glass down on the table. “Hey, I need to ask you about something,” he says quietly. “It’s something I read about you. A rumor.” Graham’s eyes flick upward. He takes another sip of his wine.

My stomach twists into a knot. Talking about this is the last thing I want right now. Maybe tomorrow, the next day. However long I can stave the feelings of guilt off my conscious. Just not now, please. Let me just have tonight with him.

“Shoot.”

“Did you date Melanie Chisholm?”

A wave of relief washes over me, and I start laughing. “Oh God, that's what you wanted to ask me about?”

“Did you or didn’t you?” Graham asks again, completely stone-faced.

“For like...two weeks, yeah.”

“You’re telling me you dated a Spice Girl.”

“Yeah, I did. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, except that you dated a Spice Girl and wow, you are old.”

“She’s a lovely woman! For fuck’s sake,” I retort, and down the remainder of my drink. “And I’m not that fucking old, you know.”

“Yeah, you are. You dated a Spice Girl.”

“You’re too young to know who the Spice Girls are.”

“Shut up. I knew who you were.”

“Touché,” I smirk and twist the stem of the glass between my fingers. After a pause, I say, “Why do you ask?”

“I dunno, cause maybe I’m jealous.”

“What, that you didn’t have a Spice Girl for a girlfriend?”

Graham shrugs, but there's a sly smile hanging at the corner of his lips. “It’s alright. I don’t need a Spice Girl girlfriend. I have you.”

“I think that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me, Coxon.”

“Is it?”

“It is.” I pause, admiring him for a long moment.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Take off your pants, old man.”

I stretch my arms up and yawn. My hands move to loosen my belt, and Graham helps the rest of the way. “Happy now?”

Graham gives me a slow and smug once-over. “Yeah.”

“That reminds me, I have a present for you.”

“You do?”

“I do,” I say, reaching into one of the bedside drawers and pulling out a long box. Graham’s eyes widen.

“What is that?”

“Open it.”

“Oh, God. Is this—?” Graham’s fingers brush along the edges of the tall but narrow box. 

“For you? Yes,” I finish, and Graham’s eyes are like large discs.

“Wait, is this for me to… or for you to…?” Graham gulps.

“That’s up to you,” I sigh, collapsing next to him. “I just figured a toy might be an easier...transition for you,” I say, then quickly add, “Either way.”

Graham’s face is pallid, and now I’m worried that I've made a mistake, so I put the lid on the box again. “You don’t even have to accept it if you don’t want to.”

Graham shakes his head. “No, no, I love it. Thank you.” He grins wide, then kisses me on the cheek. “I was just thinking…”

“Thinking what?”

“That I...want you to use it,” he says meekly, hiding behind his hair. “That way I can see how you...feel, I guess.”

I nuzzle myself into his neck and grin against his cheek. "I think that's a lovely idea."

I pull out the bedside drawer and pick out a couple of packets and lube. By the time my eyes return to Graham, he looks as though he's on the verge of fainting.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Graham nods.

I kiss him on the forehead. “It's normal for you to feel nervous. Sex is scary."

Graham swallows thickly. "Is it?"

"Yeah. And messy. But that’s what makes it beautiful, you know?”

Graham arches an eyebrow, so I add, “It gets easier, less scary. I felt the same way you did my first time. Trust me.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“I can’t imagine you ever being scared.”

“Well, I was.” I rip one of the packets open with my teeth and roll the condom down and over the toy.

Graham looks at me, then down at the toy and laughs nervously. “Jesus. You’re serious.”

“If you laugh at me, I’m not going to do it.”

“I’m not going to laugh.”

“Uh-huh.”

Graham puts on a serious face. “I promise.”

“Alright, move over then,” I say, motioning at him, and Graham rolls over onto the other side of the bed.

“One thing though.”

“What?”

“You have to kiss me first.”

Graham rolls back toward me and props himself up on his elbows. “I can do that.”

Graham’s hand wraps around the back of my neck. He smiles, and corners of his eyes crinkle up in that half-embarrassed way, and all I want to do is hold him.

His lips are dry and soft, and he kisses me with real feeling; I love that. I shut my eyes and rest my left-hand between my legs. I want to take my time. I want to enjoy this. Graham’s grip on my neck tightens; his tongue slips between my lips. He rolls his hips forward, and I feel him against my thigh. He bites down—hard—nearly drawing blood.  
I visualize my skin purpled with his love bites from head to toe, and an electric shock runs down my spine and all the way to my groin. God, I love him.

Graham continues to leave marks down my neck, each pinch of pain followed by a sweet and tender kiss before his mouth pauses in a full O over my Adam's apple, sucking gently. My cock twitches, distracted by the thought of his lips wrapped around me, that warm wetness, while his other hand trails down to stroke the crease between my thighs.

“Mmm,” I hum, as his mouth moves over my stomach. His body worship goes on for a minute or so before he stops, climbs on top of me, and covers his face with one hand.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he replies, sliding his hips against me. I moan, grinding back against him.

He reaches behind his back and a second later pulls out the toy and begins to rub himself against it. He closes his eyes, arches his neck back, and as soon as his lips part my cock twitches again, and my hand immediately reaches down to touch myself as I watch him grind against the toy. My erection is trapped between my underwear and my stomach in a bowing arch—painfully hard. The vision of him pleasuring himself alone with the toy is enough to trigger my worst inclinations. And if I were less of a gentleman, I'd grab him by both sides, push his head down and take him right here and then.

But I can’t. Not yet. I need to be slow with him, and sweet. Remember? After all, he's new to this, and I don't want to hurt him even though he's begging for it with that look on his face. I squeeze his arse with both hands until he cries out and his face flushes bright red.

I roll my hips forward, so I’m sandwiching him on one side, toy on the other, and a glorious, throaty, velvety moan escapes those parted pink lips like slow honey and all my resolve with it.

I reach down to touch myself, aching, but Graham slaps my hand away. He hands me the toy and grabbing him by the hips I flip him over so that he's underneath me. He may be taller, but I'm stronger than I look. Then again, so is he. Graham has the hardest thighs of any lover I've ever taken to bed, and I'd be lying if said I hadn't thought about that once or twice every hour for the last week.

Slipping my hands between his thighs, I spread his legs wider and position the toy between them. He nods, blushing profusely, and leans forward to kiss me. I suck gently on his bottom lip, savoring the bittersweet taste of cabernet still lingering there, and press my cock between his legs so roughly that he cries out and his hands fist the sheets beside him. I remove his briefs and sampling the droplets of pre-cum that have surfaced, run my tongue along the length of him.

I'm usually not one for cock worship, but Graham is honest-to-God lovely. He's beautifully endowed, long and lean just like the rest of him. Pink, his cock arches against his stomach and navel, the velvety tip peeking out just above the foreskin, begging to be taken in between lips that would warrant worship of it. He's hairless, save for a sex trail leading from his navel down. His frame is small at the waist, almost feminine. Smooth, flat skin pervades his bottom half, save for sharp hip bones which jut out beautifully on either side of him, begging for attention from tongue and teeth before I return to where I started.

My eyes flick upward, connecting with his, and his hands are heavy on my head as I take him into my mouth. His hips jerk forward, hands pressing down, and I relax the muscles in the back of my throat to allow him in the rest of the way.

I can tell he's surprised by this new party trick because he moans loudly, hands fisting my hair as I keep him at the back of my throat and hum until he begs me to stop. My left-hand bears down at his base, and hooking my right arm underneath his right leg, in one quick movement I pull up for air and pin him against the back of the bed frame.

He's begging me, repeating my name like a mantra into my ear and I'm dizzy, absolutely dizzy with the taste of him on my lips and cabernet and my cock trapped between his legs.

_Steady,_ I remind myself. Slow and steady.

My index finger circles his pink exterior, pushing gently, massaging until he relaxes and I open him up one finger at a time. He barely gives at my touch, and for a second I'm worried it will be too much for him, but as soon as I find his prostate his back arches up and he cries out. Bingo.

I remove my hand and reaching behind me pull the toy out and place it between my legs. Graham's body language has become desperate now. _Touch me, touch me, touch me_ are the words halted at his lips. He doesn't want me to see him beg.

“Des,” Graham pleads, raising his hips off the bed.

“What?”

“Please…”

I motion for him to move forward. “Lift your hips,” I say, and Graham obliges. I place a pillow underneath his lower half. I lay on top of him, our stomachs pressed together. He can feel me against him now, and so he moans—loud enough that I’m worried the neighbors will hear—and rolls his hips forward.

I press myself, hard and wanting, against his entrance and bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood. I can’t do this. I can’t control myself. My hand reaches for the toy beside me, and holding it with my left hand I guide it underneath the blanket between his legs where he can’t see it.

“Open your legs wider,” I whisper, and Graham adjusts himself. Squeezing a small amount of lube into my hand, I massage between his thighs, preparing him, and picking up where I left off.

Graham is a ball of tension; I can feel every single muscle in his body.

I kiss him on the forehead. "If it hurts, I'll stop. Alright?”

Graham nods and turns his face away. I push the tip of the toy inside of him.

One inch in, he stops breathing, and a sort of strangled noise emits from his throat. “Relax,” I whisper, and his body softens. I push in a few more inches, and Graham squeezes his eyes shut.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.” Graham frowns. “It’s just an…”

“Odd feeling?”

Graham nods.

I push the toy in more. I've almost the base but not quite yet, and Graham grips my shoulder, nails digging into my skin.

"Damon?"

"What?"

“Is that...all of it?”

“Almost.”

“Christ.”

I smirk and push forward again until only the base is sticking out, and the toy is entirely inside him.

"That's it."

Graham immediately deflates underneath me, as though he had been holding his breath the entire time.

“How does it feel?”

“I don't know," he winces. "Odd.”

“Hmm.” I wrap my hand around the toy, pull it back about a few inches, and readjust the angle.

I know I’ve found what I'm looking for when Graham’s mouth drops open. “Ohhh,” he purrs, and I grin.

My erection happens to be sandwiched between the sheets and Graham’s thigh, something I’d be remiss about were it not for the fact that I care about the quality of Graham's pleasure more than my own right now.

Lifting both of his legs up to rest on my shoulders, I put the toy in position as though it were myself, tucking my aching cock between my legs. I thrust forward with the toy, filling him to the hilt.

His mouth drops open, and a long, languid moan escapes his throat. His arms circle my neck for leverage, and as I move my hips move forward again he cries into my ear, “is that you?”

A devilish smirk plays across my lips. I don't want to tell him. Watching his reaction is a more than sufficient surrogate for my pleasure right now.

I pull the toy back, so only the tip is inside him. I thrust forward again, right hand brushing over my erection—painfully hard at this point and dragging across the sheets—and Graham cries out my name, nails scratching down my sides.

I pick up the pace, sliding in and out, using the friction of my erection trapped between my stomach and the bedsheets as a way to gauge the correct speed. Graham opens like a flower underneath me, hips lifting, neck arched, crying out as I make love to him with my hand, hard and deep. It's almost like the real thing.

Graham's hand wraps his cock, stroking himself as I stick my tongue down his throat. He moans into my mouth.

"Fuck, you feel amazing."

I smirk against his cheek to hide my expression and drawing out one long stroke, enter him roughly, hitting his prostate and causing his whole body to tremble.

I come, stifled, with my cock pressed unbearably hard against the sheets. Graham's muscles clench around the toy and seconds later he follows, coming in long, lovely streams across his stomach.

I keep the toy inside him for a little while longer, pressing my lips to his neck and hugging him tightly. My afterglow washes over me in waves, and after a minute or so I remove the toy and collapse on top of him.

He strokes my cheek as I lay my head against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

"Jesus, I know I don't have anything to compare it to, but...you're ridiculous," Graham says finally. I grin against his stomach.

"What?" Graham says, looking miffed. "What are you grinning about?"

"Nothing," I reply, kissing him on the lips. "I wish I could take the credit."

"What are you talking about?"

Grabbing him by the wrist, I pull Graham's hand down and place it on the toy.

Graham's eyes widen. "Oh, you bloody lying bastard!" he swears, threatening to thump me with the toy, but he misses.

"You can thank China for that one," I laugh, pinning him down by both wrists. I kiss him on the forehead. "But the next one's on me."

 

 

 

 

**

To be continued. 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

 

 

 

I convinced myself it was all right to be who I was, but others would probably think it was terrible. A couple of times in the past I’d hit bottom, but not with this sort of quiet where the pulse was nearly gone.

I was placed in a facility for alcoholics and depressives, with a large room for twelve-step meetings. The medical staff interviewed me there and told me that I was a hard-core alcohol and drug abuser and if I didn’t stop I’d be dead by thirty. The program was supposed to shake me up. It did.

I hadn’t played music for almost a year; my hands would shake whenever I tried. I couldn’t sleep. My only hope was that the sober version of me could relight the part of me that had gone dark. I saw a therapist and went to meetings. I detoxed from alcohol and heroin. My mum came to see me, she said I looked better.

Me and most of the other patients, we placated ourselves with black coffee and cigarettes. I got used to the routines and the meals and meetings and became one and one with structure and just rested there—in that small anxious space, tired of being human. Sixty days in I was marked in good health and as a well-behaved boy and sent to a halfway house and that’s where I met him.

The news had died down by then. Scandalous headlines had become tepid and disinterested in my stint in rehab, and so I was finally afforded some luxury of peace in that place.

 _“It_ was a long time ago.”

That was what Justine used to say on our phone calls toward the end of our relationship. Funny, isn’t it, how we all play the pronoun game when something hurts?

My memory forms notes in the key of B minor. This smart soft caustic kid. Foggy mornings with hot coffee and tea because we were too lazy to make it out of the bedroom.

It was a long time ago.

A long time ago, _he_ was that little warm center of my life that my heart crowded around.

He had a chair in the hallway where he’d sit and paint into the short hours of the morning. He would join me in bed as the sun rose up over the horizon, with ashen colored hands and smelling faintly of turpentine.

But that was a long time ago.

Jude—”and don’t say anything about the fucking song,” was what he’d said the first time he introduced himself to the group. Jude looked lost without a lit cigarette between two fingers. He was a dirty kid from London whose fall from grace had landed him in the chair next to me where he rightly called me a cunt for staring a bit too long.

The aphorisms of the program did nothing for me. It was all Jude. Us addicts, you know, we just trade one thing for another.

Jude stayed in the room next to mine, and he’d play music until 3 am on his little portable radio that he carried with him like it was his wallet. Sometimes I’d hear him cry and a sort of raw human feeling from myself would reach out anonymously to him between our walls.

In therapy, we sat in a circle describing our bottom. One said it was his wife’s voice when she told him she didn’t love him anymore and wanted a divorce. Another recounted time in the hospital and the pounding of his heart upon awakening. Jude reversed the direction by saying nothing at all. This gave him considerable power over us, then, and he knew it. After a long session he stood up and wiped his eyes and smoothed his shirt down and we all knew that was that. His silence said more than words could.

Me? I keep to myself. I tell lies in therapy. The truth comes out in fractions. There was a boy, I remember him well, who was miserable at home, although they did not beat him. He did not fit well, not in his school, his town, nor even his life. He had one older sister, who was kind to him. He was skinny and small and nervous. They called him Damien for several years; Damien, like the anti-Christ from The Omen. Damien was a thin ten-year-old, small, with a head of too-blonde hair and skinny legs. If you tried to pick him out of a group of boys, you’d mistake him for a girl. He’d be the strange one, filed into the cabinet of odd ones, off to the side of the others.

“Who is Jude?” Graham says one morning over coffee.

“Who?”

Oh, we all have our secrets. Now I’m questioning everything. The train, Graham's history, his motives. This morning I saw a call from his mother; he does not know that I know this. I sip my tea slowly.

“I hear you say his name at night when you are sleeping,” Graham says, but I shake my head.

A bad morning. My dreams have me so upset that I find it hard to function. As it were. Phantom pain scraps at the lining of my soul. Graham stares at me over the lid of his coffee cup like a jury waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” Graham mumbles into his coffee.

That little voice in my head is always there. The alcoholic’s voice, telling me to do the wrong thing, the simple thing. It’s easy to listen to.

Some things cannot be learned quickly. I take Graham into my bed and heart like a bottle of whiskey. I can not say that I do not love it as such. But I love it fiercely, and that is all that I know.

I stay awake at night wondering what I’m getting myself into, wondering if Graham’s wondering. Everything seems to be smoldering around the edges, closing in on top of me. It’s only a matter of time now. I could lose everything again, I tell myself, and my worry plummets me down into a deep and nightmarish sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

**

 

 

To be continued.


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